


The Six O'Clock Bird and Other Stories

by acid_dyes



Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Banter, Canon-typical swearing, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rated M for Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, and they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates), domestic AU, quarantine fic, shameless flirting, we stan an opposites-attract power couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 43,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23545414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_dyes/pseuds/acid_dyes
Summary: After escaping Jules-Pierre Mao's assassination attempt and taking control of the racing shuttle Razorback, UN Deputy Undersecretary Chrisjen Avasarala finds safe harbour back on Earth -- for a time. While her alleged treason is investigated and Sadavir Errinwright is tried, Avasarala is placed on house arrest for observation.Her one condition is met, if not understood. Bobbie Draper, mistrusted by both Mars and Earth, is hired on as Avasarala's personal guard.They're left alone, for the most part.Things get... interesting.
Relationships: Chrisjen Avasarala/Bobbie Draper
Comments: 128
Kudos: 182





	1. Sun House

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify, this takes place after s02e13 "Caliban's War" and diverges from canon in that Bobbie and Chrisjen returned to Earth instead of boarding the Rocinante. I have about six chapters written out already, so I'll be updating pretty regularly for now.

The first time she awakens to birdsong, Bobbie thinks she’s dreaming.

She’s been to the Biodomes, of course, she knows what a bird looks and sounds like up close. When she was eleven, an educator even let her hold a seagull on her arm and showed her how to stroke its plasticky feathers. But the sound of dozens of the things outside her window -- maybe even a hundred -- and she has a window that opens up to nothing but dizzying free atmosphere and sky and _space_ \--

With a groan she shuts her eyes tight and rolls over, burying her face in the huge pillow. When she went to bed last night she exalted in its spacious luxury, but now everything is too soft and fuzzy and she needs some hard edges to brace against.

 _This is a punishment_ , she thinks to herself dutifully, and then repeats it aloud to the cream-coloured wall. “This is a punishment.”

The wall, dappled blue and yellow where the light of the brightening sky peeks through the window, makes mockery of the phrase.

“It’s true,” she says, as she has been saying every morning for nearly a week. “It’s this or the brig. We’re under surveillance.”

No matter that surveillance is limited to discreet drone passes and guards that won’t come within fifty feet of the house, or that the property she’s confined to is better-appointed than some of the most expensive residences back on Mars. Being branded a traitor to both inhabited planets has to come with consequences.

Unless you’re rich and powerful or, say, under the protection of someone who is. Then you get house arrest with your ridiculously fancy employer and your punishment is to stand around being her “personal bodyguard.” Which means, living rent-free in her home with nothing much to do but entertain the old fox when she gets bored of secret shadow governing.

It isn’t a very effective deterrent.

As she reluctantly drags herself out from under the covers and stretches gravity-sore ligaments, Bobbie tries to remember the times when she used Chrisjen Avasarala’s face as target practice. It wasn’t often -- when the team got tired of the old-fashioned UNN logo and were feeling particularly righteous about the way Earth valued aesthetics and the comfort of the elite over human advancement. 

So maybe once every couple of months.

Now that very same face is going to smile out at her from casual family photos on her way down the stairs. Not to mention across the breakfast table.

“Traitor to the cause,” Bobbie tries singing to herself as she brushes out her braids, but her heart isn’t in it. Mars betrayed her first; at least Avasarala has better food.

Also, the household’s guest bedroom has an en-suite bathroom with no water rationing. It only takes about half an hour to get her morning workout out of the way, and then she spends another thirty minutes just staring at the inside of her eyelids as hot, endless water pours down around her. 

There’s a moment as she turns off the faucet when she thinks she’s hearing things, a deep unfamiliar voice singing some sustained note, but by the time she holds her breath to listen it’s faded already into the foundations of the house. With nothing better to do Bobbie stays still for a few minutes, wondering if the sound will come back, but her mind wanders and she finds herself drip-dried and silent when her attention finally returns. 

Maybe Earth has beautiful ghostly music because it’s so close to the sun. Apparently it makes noise if you know what to listen for.

She spends a few seconds making faces into the frankly oversized bathroom mirror, but after all that silliness it’s still barely past six hundred hours when she emerges into her room to check the time. Another fifty pull-ups for fun warm up her stiff back muscles, and then she’s more or less dressed and has no excuse but to wander out into the house.

The birds are still chattering when she passes the open -- open! -- window by the stairs. “I know. It’s ridiculous,” she mutters to them. “This planet does everything all wrong.”

 _Hing hing_ , say the birds in high-pitched voices, and Bobbie takes it to mean, _So does Mars._

“Oh, shut up. Your brains are pebbles.”

By then she’s out of earshot and can pretend they were silenced by her brilliant wit.

Fuck, she needs something to do.

"Something to do" is sitting at the kitchen table when Bobbie walks in, already dressed and made up and regal as if she’s been awake for hours. Which, knowing her, she might have been.

Avasarala looks up a few seconds later, eyes slow to track her head away from the scrolling text on her hand terminal. With a tap of her painted nail she pauses the readout. “Fancy seeing you here. Good morning, Bobbie.”

“Morning, ma’am.” She’s made herself comfortable enough in the house to get her own breakfast, though perhaps not as much as she’d like. “Slept alright?”

“I always do. Will you be finishing your grand _inspection_ to-day?”

Of course, she knows. It’s not that Bobbie’s been keeping it from her, but she’s tried to be discreet in familiarizing herself with the finer points of the residence. One might even say it’s her _job_ to be aware of possible security risks. Leave it to Avasarala to make it sound like some petty intrusion.

She clears her throat. “Actually, if you’d let me, I’d like to have a closer look at your storage and personal areas. Doors and corners, you know.”

Avasarala grunts in a distinctly non-regal manner.

“Look, it’s for your own safety. I need to know where the liabilities are. For example, do you keep classified materials in your underwear drawer?”

It’s meant to be a joke, lighten the mood a bit, but the woman nods very seriously as she brings her teacup to her lips. “Is that what you Martians call them? I’d be happy to show you the collection.”

“Besides --” It takes her a second to piece the innuendo together and when she does she can’t help what must look like a flustered scowl. “Ma’am, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Seeming to finally deem the interaction worthy of her attention, she sets down her reading and folds her hands elegantly. “You should be using this opportunity to relax. Think of it as an… unexpected vacation.”

Bobbie has to take a deep breath to keep from noticeably tensing. “I’m in jail. Under investigation. A traitor to all the recognized governments of the system. How am I supposed to see this as a vacation?”

There’s a beat, then Avasarala smiles brilliantly. “Well, the company couldn’t be better.”

Instead of answering, she breathes out for a full ten seconds. The TV smile in front of her abruptly fades into a more genuine, if irritating, chuckle.

“Let me get you some more fruit,” she says finally, rising in a whisper of silk. Her sari to-day is a rich glittering brown, accented with silver, and with her hair coiled low at the base of her neck she looks almost domestic against the sink and kitchen counter. Bobbie, weighing the situation in her head, has to admit that she’d deal much better with the infuriating woman if she had fresh produce to focus on.

Which, of course, must be the point.

Even while doing something as simple as washing and cutting fruits from a basket, Avasarala’s movements have a certain stately elegance. Deliberate and slow, like she’s moving through the fluids of a gravity tank. It must make her look powerful to some, but Bobbie can only agonize over how long she takes to do everything -- lingering over the real wooden counter, selecting stone fruit like it’s jewelry, cutting it in perfect sixths with a wicked little knife that she holds like a calligraphy brush. _Agonizing_. It’s a wonder she ever survived the military, telegraphing her movements like that.

 _Can’t believe I betrayed my planet for you_ , she thinks sourly, and then her mouth is full of fresh ripe peaches and she’s in heaven. _But I’m so fucking glad I did._

As if reading her mind (which isn’t, Bobbie thinks, out of the question), Avasarala smirks a bit as she settles back into her chair and delicately selects a slice of plum. “Still regretting your choice of allegiance?”

Sheer joy makes her honest. “I never regretted it,” she admits earnestly around another bite. “Saving your life was the best thing I ever did.”

Her sincerity is rewarded with a faint change of expression, the smug curl of dark lips turning surprised. “Are you being sarcastic with me, Draper?”

“As a rule? Yeah.” She swallows, and it takes all her military discipline not to stuff her mouth again. “Not this time though.”

A clinking noise as Avasarala cocks her head, disturbing the silver palettes of her earrings. “Tell me about that.” 

Something -- the admittedly adorable way this woman jingles when she so much as twitches, maybe, or the animal pleasure of safety and abundance -- gives her pause. It occurs to her that she feels comfortable, and that she actually _wants_ to talk. “No offence, ma’am, but you sound like a shrink,” she says instead.

“You _have_ been talking to yourself a lot more that usual, lately. Perhaps you could use one.”

“I suppose that’s free, too?” Bobbie scoffs, but the edge isn’t there. The truth is if she doesn’t start talking to someone, and soon, she’s going to go crazy.

Avasarala shrugs, picking out another piece of fruit with long fingers. “I’m happy to serve.”

She considers this. As much as she complains internally, she really doesn’t dislike the woman -- she wouldn't be here if she did. And besides, she's spilling her guts already.

“I trust you,” she says aloud, feeling out the words. “And I think you’re doing good.”

Coming from such a refined nose, the snort is really prodigious.

“Oh, shut it. Ma’am. You knew that already.”

“I suppose I did,” she concedes with a sigh. “Here I was thinking you were attracted to my scintillating personality.”

By now Bobbie knows when to recognize to the little openings, and she’s relieved to change the subject. “With all due respect, it’s your body I’m attracted to,” she deadpans. “Your personality is the reason I’ll never do anything about it.”

There’s a glint of something like pride as Avasarala laughs and tosses her shoulders. “Now, that’s just a challenge. You’re practically begging for it.”

“What if I am?”

“You’ll have to be nicer to me, then. I’m a busy woman, I don’t have time for games.” As if to illustrate her point she sweeps to her feet and grabs her hand terminal, rounding the table to make her way into the living room.

“Doing what? Busy, my ass.”

Avasarala pats her shoulder. “It _is_ a lovely ass, dear.”

Bobbie sticks out her tongue, but she’s already floated out of the room. 

“I’ll show you my ass,” she mutters at the table, and then wrinkles her nose at the way it came out. “Or… not.”

Mercifully her hand terminal chimes and she hurriedly licks the juice off her fingers to check it. “Doing this,” comes a husky shout from the living room as if the conversation never ended. “Make yourself useful, if my hospitality is so lacking in enrichment.”

Folders upon folders of research and intel. Bobbie can barely process what she’s looking at. “I’m supposed to read all this? What for?”

“I thought you said you trusted me,” comes the snotty reply. “Just let me do my good fucking work.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bobbie answers under her breath, but she opens the first folder anyways as she pushes her chair back. “I’m going to read outside, though.”

“I don’t care.”

“And I’m taking the fruit plate.”

“Goodbye, Bobbie.”

Later, when the glass door has slid shut behind her and she’s scouting the garden for a likely spot, she realizes that she’s hearing the morning song again. She can make out lyrics this time, rough and low: _So mothers, warn your daughters not to do what I have done…_

After a second she realizes where it’s coming from, and nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Holy shit,” she says to the unimpressed garden. “She’s singing.”

_And waste their lives in passionate sin..._

Chrisjen doesn’t exactly have a good voice. The rasp that lends her gravitas in speech doesn’t translate very well to sustained notes, and the words run together without consideration or elocution. It’s the type of singing you do when you’re alone in the house and the vibrations feel right in your throat and you barely even realize that you’re singing. A blind and selfish kind of song.

Despite that fact -- because of it, really -- something very much like affection bubbles up in Bobbie’s chest and she smiles, secretly, unthinkingly. 

_There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun…_ Chrisjen sings absently, drawing the sun and all the world into her petulant boredom. _It’s been the ruin of many -- god knows, I am a ruined one._

It isn’t Bobbie’s fault, really. She’s always been fiercely protective of her team, no matter who they are, and she’s always loved them in her own way -- aggressively. Quietly. And when the whole world is against you, and only one person is left on your side…

“Okay,” she whispers. “Suck it. Just because we’re family doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 

The singing stops, and it’s almost as if Chrisjen heard her. 

Which, knowing her, she might have.


	2. Germinal, You Know, Like the Revolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a vain creature that feeds on compliments so fuck it have another chapter ahead of schedule. Kisses!

Despite her Martian’s horrified expression whenever she brings it up, Chrisjen is quite enjoying this vacation.

Of course, it stings a bit that her loved ones are exiled to Luna, and maybe her left hand is still slow to respond after the stroke, but these have always been trifling inconveniences in the grand scheme of things. It is easy, with long practice, to set aside minor things like love and the body when you’re watching the labour of decades finally unfold before your eyes.

From a very young age -- god, twenty-eight or nine -- Chrisjen knew that it would come to this. Not the hostile alien life or the collapse of the global government, perhaps, but what else could unbalance her enough for her hold on the world to slip? There was always going to be a breaking point.

So she prepared for it, in the back of her mind, as she spun the web of her career and planted little knots and kisses along the way. Half the UN sees her as the real head of the operation, whether they realize it or not. Many of the others see her swishing and swearing about the place and decide, secretly, that they like her. Some, like Souther, hate her with a viciousness that only breeds absolute and near-perfect trust. It’s almost laughably easy.

Now she’s a traitor, yes, but she’s in the right. And ever so slowly, with just the slightest of tugs, her web is asserting itself around the whole damn planet.

It’s glorious.

House arrest is just a pleasant excuse to sit back and watch it all happen from the comfort of her own home. Despite the communications ban (it’s easy to get around, with most of the tech team thinking they’re being subtle in their support), she receives updates on the situation almost hourly. With the rest of her responsibilities gone, staying on top of the whole clusterfuck only eats up six or eight hours of her day.

The last time she had this much free time was parental leave for Ashanti, and even then she clawed her way back to the office as soon as the novelty wore off. Now she doesn’t even have small children to think about.

Well, except for Bobbie.

The thought rouses her from her internal gloating and she blinks, shaking herself mentally. The dense newsfeed on her terminal, sensing that her gaze drifted, has paused in its scrolling and is asking her snottily if she’d like to exit. 

“No. Fuck you,” Chrisjen says, exiting. “Your sources are weak and my grandchildren have better vocabularies.”

It makes her feel a bit better to snap at something. Extensive internal monologuing isn’t a very good look on her, no matter how much she enjoys it. Still, the afternoon sun is streaming pleasantly through the picture window, and her mind is clear, and she feels almost young with the deliciousness of it all. Then she unfolds her legs and her knees give a pointed creak.

“My gorgeous head of hair begs to disagree,” she informs them sternly. It won’t do to fall apart in increments.

“What?” says Bobbie, delight in her voice as she sticks her head in through the archway.

“I said I’m going for a walk. This sun is putting me to sleep.” Her skirts give a rustle as she pulls herself to her feet, tossing her hand terminal back onto the couch. 

Her Martian draws her shoulders back defensively, face an adorable mask of annoyance and concern. “Not without me, you aren’t.”

“You’re such a romantic. Are you afraid I’ll slip and fall? Forget where I live and wander off?”

“That, or you’ll be assassinated via drone strike.”

“Don’t be silly, this whole area is protected airspace. Give me ten minutes to change.” She squeezes Bobbie’s arm affectionately as she passes and Bobbie lets her. Though sighs.

 _You’re wearing black and taupe, so I’d be clashing if I stayed in red. Yellow? No, it’s too late in the day. Rust. The one with gold embroidery. And matte black accents -- something architectural. Big blocky jewelry. The geometric set from Andalusia?_ As she unwraps her sari she’s taken by a moment of pleasant melancholy. It’s been so long since she’s taken a walk just to look beautiful in the fresh air.

Later, as she’s changing her earrings, Bobbie calls up the stairs with a touch of impatience. “You said ten minutes.”

“And you believed me? You know how I get when I stand at the mirror for too long.”

She can almost hear her Martian’s eyes rolling. “Like a budgie, yeah. I’m getting bored of waiting.”

“And yet, here you still are.” To punctuate Chrisjen lingers in her reflection another few moments, fussing with her pallu. Stunning, of course. As always.

Her preening is rewarded by Bobbie’s expression when she reappears in the entryway. Resentful and then grudgingly appreciative -- exactly what she expected. 

“Those are your _exercise_ clothes?” 

“Oh, god no. This is to look good on the inevitable video recording of my death by drone strike. It’s a walk, Bobbie. We’re not exercising.”

She nods, conceding with a what-did-I-expect set of the eyebrows. “Sure. I sent a notice to perimetre security so they won’t think we’re escaping.”

Chrisjen scoffs in surprise, then cuts off a laugh. “Can you imagine? The two of us, fleeing through the wilderness on foot? It’s so crazy it might work.”

When she’s being really honest with herself, Chrisjen’s primary reason for liking Bobbie so much is her ability to take a joke. In the past, her aides have been either too formal or too frightened to laugh at her -- and now here, quite by accident, is this giant Martian who actually snorts at her deadpans. It’s all very rewarding.

“Are we going, or do you need another twenty minutes to pick your shoes?” she’s saying now, nose wrinkled in that delightful way she has. “I might take a nap.”

Graciously, Chrisjen sweeps an arm out towards the front door. She was going to take a moment to consider footwear, actually, but the moment has passed. Bobbie still has to be reminded to take her shoes off inside the house. It’s a process.

Then -- sunlight. For a moment, once she steps clear of the entryway, she finds herself at a loss. She’s never actually taken a random stroll on this property before. At the bottom of the driveway two UN vehicles are trying their best to look innocent -- not that way, then -- and up behind the house is the required protected wildlife area -- where there are bugs, if she recalls correctly. Her Martian is, rather unhelpfully, standing at attention three paces behind her and trying hard not to look up.

“Sunglasses,” she says to buy some time, and sweeps back into the house.

Behind her Bobbie makes a _ksss_ noise of irritation that tugs at her chest cavity -- Frank used to affect that habit, part of his trying so hard to be a “real Martian” -- but then she’s thinking about accessories and whether she can convince Bobbie to wear some subtle shades. The effect would be striking.

_Tortoiseshell for me. Classic. The oversized round ones, with blue lenses. Something smaller for you -- where’s that hexagonal pair Arjun doesn’t like? --_

There’s a moment of distraction in the mirror and then she’s back at Bobbie’s side, trajectory planned, holding out the shades as if in afterthought. “That squint will give you wrinkles.”

Squinting down at her with a touch of resignation, she actually takes them. 

Chrisjen sets off at a brisk pace, mourning the click of her heels on polished floors. Soft earth throws her off her stride. But the weather is bright, and the world is changing, and the quiver of imbalance in her stomach is just as it has been since her heart went cold. It really is a perfect day.

By the time they reach the orchard, though, Bobbie’s silent shadowing has begun to grate on her nerves. 

“You know, you should be enjoying this,” she says without turning. “Our landscaping team outdid themselves.”

“I am.” The softness in her voice is new, somehow, but she doesn’t offer anything more. Having her at one’s back is like having a very large, very sweet predator for a pet -- comforting, yes, exciting, but arrogant.

Her bracelets rattle as she holds out one hand. “Then stop being ridiculous.”

Bobbie, bless her, understands and bridges the gap. There’s a goofy kind of smile on her round face as she offers her arm with gentlemanly flair, as if in jest, but Chrisjen takes it anyways. Bobbie has very nice arms.

“Back home we get fruits on hydroponic racks,” she says now, considering the view. “This is so… messy.” 

There it is. Wistfulness.

Pressing a little closer than she has to, Chrisjen allows herself a little pride. Human bodies will always be drawn to Earth, no matter how the pull hurts them. 

“ _Earthers_ are messy,” Bobbie continues thoughtfully, and the proud feeling sours petulantly. “I’ve been reading what you gave me. It’s -- confusing.”

“Which part?” she asks dryly, tugging them back into motion. “Don’t tell me you weren’t trained for your eventual defection to Earth’s shadow government, and the decoding of our most sensitive information.”

“Just a certificate.” Her smile is absent. “You all want different things, I mean. Everyone’s pulling in a different direction.”

Perhaps because she’s walking more slowly now, Chrisjen bites her tongue for a second. Her Martian isn’t wrong.

“It comes with age,” she says finally, and the words come out slow as well. Not hesitant, just… unhurried. They’ve cleared the orchard by then, on their way up the last hill before the lake. “And multitudes.”

“You must hate that.”

She blinks. “What?”

Bobbie seems taken aback by her confusion. “Doesn’t it frustrate you, that all your priorities are always changing? That your world keeps ending?”

It takes Chrisjen a long moment to wrap her mind around what Bobbie is saying, another to understand why. She lets the smile come leisurely.

“Une armée noire, vengeresse.” The near-forgotten language soothes her tongue. “Qui germait lentement dans les sillons…”

“Sorry?”

“Zola wrote that in eighteen eighty-five. He saw a great vengeful army stirring, he said, whose germinations would -- ferait éclater -- would tear the world apart.” She frowns at the unsatisfying translation, trying to conjure a more brittle image. “Shatter. He said their germinations would shatter the Earth.”

Her Martian, unimpressed by ancient history, helps her over the crest of the hill and stays silent for a moment, taking in the still water of the lake. Chrisjen can pinpoint the exact moment that she notices the ducks.

“Did the Earth shatter?” she asks eventually, eyes still distant.

“It did. And it shattered again. And it’s shattering now.”

“And you?”

 _I really should come here more often. I’ll wear pants -- we can ask for a boat._ “I shatter too. My job is to do it on… a slightly different schedule.”

“Okay.” There’s determination in her voice now, if not total understanding. “I’ll help you clean up, then.”

Chrisjen looks up sharply, expecting mockery, but Bobbie’s face is placid with purpose -- sincerity, even. God, but the woman is unshakeable.

Something unexpectedly warm begins to unfurl in her chest, then, and she lets go of Bobbie’s arm to press a hand to it. _Breathe in from the cold earth..._

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

“Oh, shut up. Call me Chrisjen. This is hardly a formal, work relationship.” She takes another deep breath to steady herself. There. Maybe the hill was a bit too much. Maybe she’s just a little too affected by her Martian. 

“Your biceps are too goddamn distracting,” is what she says aloud. 

Bobbie doesn’t take the bait, leaning in closer with a concerned look on her face. She really is terrible at concealing her emotions. “Your face is all flushed. Are you sure you’re alright? Chrisjen?” 

And, yeah, maybe that’s nice to hear. “I’m old. Take me home.” 

That seems to do the trick, as it always does. Bobbie rolls her eyes and makes some quip about chariots as they link arms again on their way back down the rise, which really isn’t at all steep, and it’s short work to get back to the house with dignity more or less intact.

 _Breath comes from the cold earth, through the soles, into the stomach and chest…_ It’s the bane of Chrisjen’s life, that she heats up so fast. Though she hasn’t had such trouble with it in years -- decades, even. She’s usually so good at staying cool to the touch. 

But of course everything is changing, and the world is ending, and she’s in her element. Something was bound to come awake.

She should take up reading again. There are some very good bits about awakenings in Germinal -- the passages she memorized a lifetime ago have been steadily slipping away, but she still remembers the excitement stirring in her stomach. Shattering the world and putting it back together again.

“Maintenant, en plein ciel, le soleil d’avril rayonnait dans sa gloire,” she recites under her breath, slipping off her walking flats in the entryway. “Échauffant la terre qui enfantait… Du flanc nourricier jaillissait la vie…”

“If you’re speaking in tongues now, ma’am, there are some people I have to notify.”

“Take off your shoes, Bobbie.”

The former Gunnery Sergeant of the Martian Marine Corps blows a raspberry. But obeys.


	3. Devil's Details

_Fasting in the sun room to-day_ , reads the note. It’s written in pen, on real paper, for some unfathomable reason. _Go enjoy our vacation. Don’t fucking interrupt me._

It takes Bobbie a second to decipher the looping script -- why attach your letters together? -- but when she does her cheeks puff out in sudden annoyance. Of course the woman disappears as soon as she starts feeling some kind of comfortable camaraderie. 

Absently she folds the slip of paper twice and tucks it into her bra, tiptoeing into the living room. The sun room is really just an aquarium tacked onto the side of her house where Chrisjen likes to meditate, and sure enough there she is -- hair loose and spilling all the way down her back as she sits cross-legged on the floor. Peeking in at an angle she can just make out the curl of smoke looping up from some candle or incense burner. 

“Are you breathing?” she whispers, and her own breath fogs the glass of the sliding door. Chrisjen, of course, can’t hear her, but eventually the steady rise and fall of her shoulders becomes apparent. No excuse to barge in, then.

She’s only disappointed for a half-second before her mind comes aflame with the possibilities.

With one last glance at Chrisjen’s immobile form -- she really is so small without all the hot air she carries around everywhere -- Bobbie eases back from the door. Her gaze darts around the living room, but she’s spent enough time here to know there’s nothing really interesting left to snoop in. A quick tally forms in her mind of the rooms she inspected thoroughly in her first explorations.

“That leaves --” she mumbles a moment -- “Master bed and bathrooms, study, back room…” 

Big as she is, her passage through the house is still swift and silent as a cat’s. 

Chrisjen leaves her bedroom door open, even when she’s in it, which is usually an annoyance but which Bobbie thanks her for now as she pokes her head in. Despite the fact that she sweeps the whole house for surveillance every week she can’t help but make up excuses, _I heard a noise_ or _there was a mouse_ , in case she’s somehow caught. 

Bobbie has never seen a real mouse. Though she would very much like to.

It’s a breezily spacious room she enters now, tastefully decorated in warm colours and all the little sparkly details that seem to spontaneously occur in Chrisjen’s presence. The grainy wood of the furniture, though, and things like the small framed drawings on the chest of drawers confuse her for a second; it’s not something she’d think Chrisjen would particularly like. She has to remind herself that this is, of course, a shared bedroom, but the thought doesn’t stick -- the concept of Chrisjen conceding anything to anyone is just too weird. 

Bobbie’s mind shies away somehow from the idea of this marriage. She just can’t picture it. See, the bed is big and low and there’s a distinct imprint smack in the middle of it -- Chrisjen must take up the whole mattress, tangling those long fingers in the linen sheets. There’s no room for the habit of sleeping with someone else when masses of dark hair fan out across three pillows.

For some reason this image stays in Bobbie’s mind as she crouches beside the bedframe to look beneath it. Nothing. The sheets smell nice, though, like snuffed candles and a hint of something astringent.

On the bedside table to the right, a standing lamp (with an actual lampshade!), a microterminal shaped like an old-fashioned pair of spectacles, and a grooved clay dish with a tiny pyramid of brown-black incense, unburned. The shallow drawer holds a bottle of sleeping tablets and some small blue painkillers. 

There are real paper books on the left-side table, which only confirms things Bobbie already knew: the Avasaralas are old, and so is their money.

Two delicate green-upholstered armchairs and a matching desk occupy one corner, with a few shelves of miscellaneous decoration -- a line of small stone elephants in descending size, a pen-and-ink nude in a wide carved frame. A large-ish Buddha judges her with a placid smile. On the desk there’s a neat spread of thick creamy stationary, one sheet neatly ripped in half.

Something occurs to her then and she pulls the note out of her bra -- it’s the same paper. “Show-off,” she breathes. The annoyance is tinged with affection. Typical Earther behaviour, using expensive art products to leave messages that could just as easily be sent via terminal.

Another extravagant luxury: the doors that Bobbie thinks should lead to the closet actually open to a whole separate room. She blinks. It’s filled with clothes.

With a shocked grin she enters the room, hand roaming out to ruffle a long rack of bright silks. The snuffed-candle smell is stronger here, mixing with something sharp like absinthe, and she wonders what it could be -- Chrisjen doesn’t wear perfume, as far as she can tell, but this is unmistakeably her scent. Bobbie would recognize it anywhere. Unconsciously she finds herself burying her nose in a soft cold petticoat and draws back, clearing her throat in embarrassment.

She can’t stay in the closet-room for very long, the heady rush of colour and texture overloading her brain, but there are few places to hide things here. And she already knows what Chrisjen wears, after all. Except for the empty space that must have housed her husband’s clothes, there’s little to be learned from her wardrobe.

“Come on, show me some secrets,” she mutters as she makes her way to the bathroom. Like the one in the guest bedroom, it’s lit with a soft pinkish glow, and it’s ten times the size of the bathrooms she’s used to. There isn’t even a shower, just an enormous tub made up of soft ergonomic curves. The amount of water it would take to fill it makes her head spin.

The obvious starting point is the medicine cabinet, which Bobbie makes for with haste. Again, an empty shelf -- what’s-his-name, Arjun, left a hole with his departure. She wonders if Chrisjen feels his absence very deeply. The careful way she leaves room for his return says yes; the sprawling print in the middle of the bed says no. 

Well. One could hardly call the woman uncomplicated.

In the shelves that are occupied, Bobbie finds nothing much unexpected. A stunning array of medications -- again, old and rich. Peevishly she pokes around to see if she recognizes any sex pills (Earth hands them out like candy, according to Martian journalism) and then isn’t sure what it means that she finds none. 

There are, however, about a dozen different bottles in the dark blue of the UNN’s official pharmacy that she recognizes from her first days back on Earth. Phenol derivatives and ridiculously strong painkillers and neural stims and blood thinners -- they had Chrisjen taking them as soon as she started complaining about the intravenous feeds, which was about three minutes after she could talk again.

She closes the cabinet with a shudder. It still makes her queasy to think about that time.

The normal medkit is in another little cabinet under the sink, which she knows already. Beside it there’s another box, smaller, with a handwritten label that startles her -- _Bobbie_ , in a now-familiar script, underlined with a neat dash. Her hands are on it before she has time to wonder what’s inside.

Nothing to do, then, but open it.

An MCR logo. A printout of her medical records. And extra stock of all the boosters she needs to thrive at one-g, the boosters she has to grovel for from the embassy because they won’t let her buy enough to last more than a week. With a start she realizes that if for whatever reason they decide to wring her out, which they well might, she’ll still have months of backup. 

Her mental image of Chrisjen wavers a bit and she laughs softly, rocking back on her heels. Cute. Very cute. And sneaky, to boot.

If you’re under the protection of someone rich and powerful...

She’s still smiling a little as she leaves the bedroom, poking back downstairs to check on her charge. Same position, same steady breathing. Her hand twitches, but she’s otherwise utterly unmoving. Bobbie wonders if she’s really going to meditate all day without eating, and moments later decides that she absolutely will.

“Okay,” she says loudly, pointedly aiming her voice away from the door. “Take your spiritual high ground. I’m having lunch.”

And she does, and it’s very good: cold sag aloo from yesterday over saffron rice with an omelette on the side, because why not. While she eats her mind drifts back to the big tub in Chrisjen’s bathroom -- she could almost certainly submerge herself fully in it, it’s so big. And then…

She shivers in the warm kitchen. It would be too awkward, verging on inappropriate, she thinks sternly. But it’s a nice thought nonetheless, and she has to admit it would have prime teasing potential as a situation. 

A hypothetical situation.

“You should be doing your reading,” she admonishes with a strict frown, and then promptly dumps her dishes in the processor and heads upstairs again.

When she comes to the double door that leads into the study, however, she wavers. Not that she doesn’t want to intrude, obviously, but from what she can gather Chrisjen rarely uses it. _It’s mostly Arjun’s office,_ she said once, and suddenly Bobbie feels shy around the idea of him. She doesn’t know him; she hasn’t wiped his bleeding nose and held his thin hand as he slipped in and out of consciousness in a UNN infirmary. He isn’t her friend. 

“Chrisjen isn’t your friend either, dolt,” she hisses, pushing the door open. “She’s your squad. There’s a difference.”

For her squad she would kill and die and barge into any of their private spaces without question. To a friend, she would have to come clean and apologize for snooping. 

By the time she makes up her mind she’s already fully in the room.

Again that grainy, swirly wood. Here there’s a whole shelf of paper books, some of them antique-looking but most just used or even new -- there must be some demand for them still, among the intelligentsia. The word makes her giggle, memories of drunken nights denouncing the fat cats hot on its heels. Damn, she really could use a friend right about now. 

“Boo for you. Traitors don’t get friends.” It still doesn’t hurt like it should.

First: the desk, obviously. A whole hand terminal -- not even locked -- devoted to dictionaries and translation engines. Well. No surprise, then. A little ivory statue of a woman with too many arms. A framed photograph of a young man she recognizes from some-- 

_Oh._ The only other picture she’s seen of him was his military portrait in the living room. Here, Charanpal is younger, or looks it, smiling easily as he gazes down at something outside the frame. He looks too friendly to be Chrisjen’s son, somehow, long eyelashes casting shadows on his stubbly cheeks.

It makes her uncomfortable to look at him for too long so she lets her eyes slide to the other frames. A young-looking Chrisjen and younger Arjun dressed up and posing glamorously on their way out the door. A teenage girl frowning directly into the camera. A woman lying naked in bed with a newborn baby on her chest.

This one Bobbie picks up to take a closer look at, because she can barely recognize Chrisjen in it. Without makeup or jewelry or that chilly gaze to distract, she looks like… a person. A person smiling at her baby, holding it against her skin so that it can feel her heartbeat all the way through its tiny ribcage.

The photo is taken up close, from the perspective of someone in bed there with them. Suddenly disgusted with herself Bobbie sets it down and leaves the study, closing the door silently behind her. 

For the next hour she does pull-up sets on the doorframe to her room, and then does half of a full workout before she runs into equipment problems (in that, she has none) and has to start again. She sets her hand terminal to a Mariner Valley radio station that plays Mars’ latest hits, grows peevish, browses through stations until something feels at least familiar if not exactly right. In the back of her mind she remembers her mother telling her something about Earth, about where they came from there, but she pushes it away like she did then. Bobbie is nothing if not stubborn.

Finally, when her muscles start to ache comfortably, she allows herself to take a cold shower and go downstairs for good. Her body is just tired enough to let her mind focus on the convoluted reports Avasarala insists on sharing with her. Flopping onto the couch with a huff, Bobbie grabs an embroidered pillow to her chest and lets the afternoon sun lull her into a trance as the world unravels before her eyes.

_Errinwright found guilty. Protomolecule active on Ganymede. Mars, Mars, Mars. Mao-Kwikowsky Holdings. Freighter Rocinante..._

And then all at once it’s dark and Bobbie is under a blanket. Two blankets, actually: one for her upper body, and another for her legs, tucked tight.

“Shit,” is the first thing she says, sitting up blearily. Then: “Fuck.”

When her head clears enough to untangle herself from the fuzzy prison she stands, stretching until she sees stars. She yawns so wide that her jaw cracks. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes she makes her way to the kitchen, where a single soft light above the cooktop promises water for her sandy mouth and maybe a cookie.

She does not expect to find her employer, tiny in nothing but her shift and robe, eating salmon sashimi in the shadowy half-dark. “I thought you were fasting,” Bobbie accuses as she casts about for a glass.

Chrisjen waves out the window with long black chopsticks. “And the sun has set, if you hadn’t noticed. Did you have a nice nap?”

It was a very nice nap, actually, now that she thinks of it. “You could’ve woken me.”

“Oh, I was going to, but you just looked so peaceful there.” Her voice is plummy with sarcasm. “Like a big cat stretched out in the sun. I couldn’t possibly bring myself to disturb you.”

“Easy, grandma. Don’t tell me you’re going soft.”

“I’ve always been soft. See? Soft.” She holds out a hand and Bobbie takes it without thinking. “I moisturize. You should try it sometime.”

Holding that admittedly very soft hand in her calloused one, Bobbie finds herself smiling. “Wow. You’re not wrong. All that blood must do wonders for your skin.”

“Well, bathing monthly in the blood of virgins is mostly for my self-esteem.” Turning her face up to Bobbie’s her expression is that of a stranger -- a _person_ , calm and content with a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. 

It scares her.

“Chrisjen?”

“Bobbie?”

She clears her throat. For a moment, she was going to admit to everything -- the snooping, the shyness, the strange feeling in her chest whenever Chrisjen licks her thumb and forefinger to briskly snuff out a candle.

“Can I have my hand back?”


	4. Rosa the Beautiful Did Not Die of Fever

After a full day of silent contemplation and a sleep richened by some of the strongest drugs on the market, Chrisjen has a pleasant pool of spiritual calm in her belly and is fully ready to tear the man to shreds without getting so much as a hair out of place.

“Let me get this straight,” she says with a bland smile. “You’re telling me that our agreement is void, and that despite the recent conviction of my accuser, you still can’t allow the future Undersecretary of the United Nations her promised connection to a verified Luna server?”

“Well… yes,” replies the officer, eyes darting to the side in confusion. “At the time of our previous discussion we weren’t aware of the full --”

“So you lied to me?”

He actually pales. “Of course not! As I said we simply weren’t _aware_ \--”

“Ah.” She holds up a hand, enjoying the sound of her bracelets falling against each other. “Simple incompetence, then. I understand.”

At least he has the presence of mind not to argue, watching wide-eyed through the screen as she plays with one earring thoughtfully.

“You see,” Chrisjen says finally, voice lowering to a friendly purr. “This does bring me to somewhat of an impasse. I must say I’m taken aback by this… lapse… on the part of my future Head of Communications.”

“Ma’am?”

“After all, if you’re unable to establish a discreet connection in this civilian matter, I could hardly expect you to manage an entire office. We -- the _government,_ that is, Roman -- do have rather high standards, though you seem to take us for fools.”

A little cough. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Then let me try again. Get me my goddamn husband on the line or I’ll have your balls for my inauguration banquet.”

The man is decent enough to smooth over her little tirade, she has to give him that. “I suppose,” he begins tentatively, “we could patch through the relay on --”

“Don’t bore me with science words, Roman. We’ll talk when I get back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And give my love to Marietje. Delightful woman.”

“I will, ma’am.”

She hangs up on him unceremoniously and uses the blank screen to check her makeup, running a finger over the thin skin of her cheekbones. Fuck, she looks good. That esthetician who kept suggesting another facelift had no taste.

When the terminal springs back to life she doesn’t even let it ring before answering, whole body leaning forward in anticipation. Arjun.

His beautiful face fills the screen and Chrisjen has to resist the urge to caress the terminal. “You made it,” he says simply, smile gentle with relief.

“I promised I would.” A sudden lump in her throat makes her voice rough. “The comms officer might not survive, though.”

“Just one more casualty of war. At least he fell for the forces of good.”

“The forces of good care about making me blubber over how much I love my husband?”

“Unequivocally.” He grins, and it’s almost like he’s home. “Though I might be biased.”

They sit there for a minute while she collects herself, sniffing. It always gives her whiplash to become family-Chrisjen after a long period of nothing but her bare self.

In the tiny screen Arjun glances up at something and she frowns. “Where are you?”

“Our garden. They just launched a private satellite, somewhere up there.”

“Killed it, actually,” she corrects automatically. “Mao-Kwik is being scrapped for parts.”

The look her husband gives her then is strange, but not unfamiliar. “I forgot. This means you’re the new Errinwright.”

“Hardly new. And hardly Errinwright, I should hope.” Her attempt at levity falls flat. “You’re disappointed in me.”

“Never. Chrisjen, I could never be disappointed in you.” He’s so fierce, so sincere, that she almost believes it. “Am I disappointed in the world? Angry, even? That’s another question.”

“I won’t ask, then.” Though she wants to. “Have you been sleeping properly?”

Arjun laughs. “Have you?”

“I have help. You’re avoiding the question -- is everything alright? Are the little ones adjusting?”

“We’re fine, my love. All of us.”

She flaps her hand dismissively. “Fuck ‘fine.’ Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly grown to love political unrest.”

With a soft smile he shrugs, seeming to sit somewhere and set down the camera. “I miss my wife. She has a rather noticeable presence, you know.”

“Oh, I know. And the children?”

“Suri’s having growing pains from the low gravity. Otherwise, thriving. And you? Have you been terribly lonely?”

Chrisjen ponders this, perhaps a moment longer than she should. “I’m preoccupied,” she admits finally, because it always hurts to lie to Arjun. “It’s a strange time.”

“Tell me about that.”

“You don’t want to hear it.” She leans her chin in her hand. “It’s all work and play in the garden of sin. Not the kind, morally upright Chrisjen you know and love.”

He laughs. “Bollocks.”

“Bullshit? You mean bullshit?” Despite herself she smiles. “Say it, Arjun, it’s better than sex.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. What can I say? I was never as forthright as you are.”

“You can say bullshit. And you can be lying, because I’m right -- you would hate being on Earth these days. I, for one, am positively drunk with power.”

“I could bear that, if it meant we would sleep in the same bed again.”

She actually does caress the screen then, fingers light on the flat image of her husband’s face. “I do miss you,” she manages. “Achingly.”

“And I you.” A wry smile. “You really are preoccupied. Aren’t you going to admonish my sentimentality?”

“Apparently I’m going soft. Who knows what else I’ll let slip?”

“Now you’re just toying with me.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “You know, I’ve been reading all your favourites again.”

“You’ve been reading Allende?”

She grins as he makes a face. “All your _poetic_ favourites, then. But I may yet resort to prose, if I have to wait as long for your next call as I did for this one.”

“How dare you. My Isabel is very poetic,” she says, instead of _I’m sorry._

“I know,” he answers, and means exactly that.

Their silence then is heavy, and Chrisjen considers bringing up their last call -- her still in the infirmary, him tight with fear and anger -- but rejects it out of hand. There’s no need reopen old, old wounds. He knew she was alive, and that was more than enough.

“How are you, my heart?” asks her husband from a million miles away. Somehow she’s never been terribly good at concealing hesitation from him.

This is almost certainly a monitored call, but for a moment she nearly tells him about the slow grinding gears of her machine, the ripples in her web. It would feel good to tell him. More out of pride than any kind of explanation, sure, but to have him listening… 

“I think I’m having hot flashes again,” she says without thinking, even though she wasn’t planning on telling him just yet. 

“Oh,” he says, momentarily confused, and then, recognizing the euphemism: “ _Oh._ ”

“It might be good for me,” she continues, warming up to her subject. “Maybe I deserve to misbehave a bit -- there couldn’t be a better opportunity, what with all this free time, and I’m home for the first time in months...”

“Under arrest,” Arjun points out. “And under heavy surveillance. Misbehaviour is what got you into this mess.”

He’s wrong about that. Though he does have a point. “Ah,” she says, deflating. “My conscience.”

“They’ll come at you harder now than ever, Chrisjen. Will it be too much?” His brow creases lovingly. “Are you having trouble? If it’s the stress --”

“No. No, my love. I’ve been expecting this for a long time. You know how good I am at setting aside my humanity.”

She didn’t really mean to hurt him. It’s a vicious little instinct left over from a spoiled childhood, striking when someone tells her she can’t have what she wants, and she hates how easy it is -- how satisfying. Even when Arjun flinches at the words she feels like she’s won something.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

It isn’t the time for apologies. “Read me something, then,” she orders with a little pout. “Warm my cold heart.”

Poetry is the one thing they never refuse each other. “How do I love thee?” Arjun quips, instantly brightening. “Let me find the page.”

“Oh, I take it back. Have mercy.” She has to press her lips together to keep from laughing. “You said you were going through my favourites -- just read me whatever you have on hand.” 

The darling man actually reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small paperback. “In your heart of hearts, though, don’t you love to be serenaded? Here. I was about to start _Haikus for the Atomic Age._ ”

Her mouth purses in thought for a moment and she glances at the ceiling. “Callisto. I was in negotiations with the Ansehelm protesters when I read that.”

“A lifetime ago,” he nods, already drawing breath to start the first segment.

“A lifetime ago.”

As he reads in that soft even voice she loves Chrisjen taps out the syllables of each poem with one painted nail, reveling in their elegant form and the way they break it. With a rustle of beaded silk she leans back and lets her shoulders relax, a bit sadly -- she used to love pressing close to her husband on the couch as he recorded lectures, doing her own work with that wonderful voice all around her and his warmth at her shoulder. A lifetime ago. 

They don’t have long, of course. Technically they had half an hour, though they take twice that without thinking. When Roman cuts in to notify her that their patch is orbiting out of range or some shit she doesn’t even have the heart to snap at him.

Arjun does not say goodbye. It’s their tradition. Through the fog of melancholy Chrisjen thinks there’s a version of her that only exists in his presence, that he takes with him when he leaves; not family-Chrisjen exactly but human-Chrisjen, devoted-Chrisjen. A Chrisjen that has loyalties and hesitations. They don’t have to say goodbye because his wife is with him always -- it’s some other woman somewhere who can’t hold things in her head unless they’re right in front of her.

_Don’t be an idiot. Arjun is gone; get on with your day. You can think about him when he’s home._

“I’m going to read some Allende,” she says aloud to the room. “Something violent.”

The room says nothing. She half-expected her Martian to cut in with something clever or teasing -- Bobbie always brings her back to the ground. Literally, in some cases. She wonders if Bobbie would like _Eva Luna_ \-- if she reads much at all.

Absently she pulls herself to her feet and puts feelers out around the house, listening for some hint of life. After a quick search out the window she gathers her skirts and steps out into the garden, down the hill before she can really think why.

Bobbie dwarfs the little gazebo she’s sitting in as she scrolls through her terminal, looking up with a tentative smile when she becomes aware of Chrisjen’s presence. “I heard you talking to your husband,” she explains without being asked. “Thought I should give you some space.”

“Isn’t it your job to do the opposite?”

“Well. I could see you through the window.” She points, then hesitates for a second before patting the seat beside her. “Come sit?”

She complies, folding up on the other end of the bench. Somewhere above them there’s a distinctive _hing hiying_ \-- it must be nearing six o’clock already. They’ll have to think of dinner soon.

“How’s your, um, family?” Bobbie asks carefully.

“They’re safe. They... improve me.” A pause. “I thought being under the sky was unpleasant for you.”

Bobbie’s face goes a little wan at the reminder. “Training. If I keep my eyes on my reading it’s mostly okay.”

“Don’t let me distract you, then.” Curling her legs a little closer, she takes out her own terminal and pulls up the library. “Though I will join you, if you’d be so kind.”

“It’s nice to have you around,” her Martian says absently.

She opens her mouth to deliver something sarcastic. Closes it. Her cheeks are warm, for whatever reason.

“If that’s a confession,” she says, and the arch in her eyebrows doesn’t entirely reach her voice, “I have some time to misbehave this afternoon.”

There’s a hesitation, then Bobbie gives a soft little laugh. It’s the hesitation that gives her away, though. It always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chrisjen can have little a misbehaviour. As a treat.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, come say hi to me on tumblr @beobread if you have thoughts you'd like to share... and call your loved ones. Their patience might be wearing thin ;)


	5. Mount Olympus

In the days that follow Bobbie finds herself watching her employer very closely.

At first, she isn’t sure what it is that keeps catching her attention -- a tiny gesture, a lilt in the voice, a step out of place -- but she knows enough to trust her instincts. She may not be a political virtuoso, but Bobbie knows about bodies. 

So she watches, secretly, and when she starts feeling awkward she reminds herself that this is purely professional.

Now she observes the woman closely as she naps in the afternoon sun, reclining like an artist’s model among her silks. Her breathing is even, with just a hint of a rattle, her face seems relaxed and devoid of pain, her long hands are curled delicately… 

“Can I help you, Draper?” Chrisjen purrs.

“Shit! Jesus, ma’am, you nearly scared me to death.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Without opening her eyes she adjusts her position against the back of the couch, thick silver eyeshadow gleaming in the light. Adding to it the near-black of her lipstick it’s a wonder she doesn’t smear makeup all over everything. “If you were plotting my demise, consider yourself caught.”

“Harsh. At least give me a chance.” Pushing off the doorframe she enters the living room fully, suddenly unsure how to proceed. “Sorry for interrupting your nap.”

“It was not,” Chrisjen retorts, voice husky with sleep, “a nap.”

“Right -- you lie around unmoving with your mouth hanging open for fun and profit.”

“I was hoping to attract a stray marine.” Rolling over with a luxurious stretch she finally looks over the back of the couch to meet Bobbie’s gaze. Her eyes are wide and bright and really, Bobbie thinks, very beautiful. Objectively speaking. “Did I?”

“Absolutely. I’m completely in your thrall.” With a little frown she considers this. “So nothing’s changed, really. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Good for you for admitting it. I promise, it won’t hurt.” 

“Won’t hurt you, maybe.” Reaches the window in three long strides to look out at the garden. “ _I -- live -- to -- serve -- Mother -- Earth,_ ” she half-jokes, moving her hands robotically -- funny how that thin pane of glass between her and the sky almost represses her vertigo. Then sighs. “It is nice here, though.”

“We can go out, if you like,” comes the low voice from behind her. “Do some weeding. Those limp-dicks at the end of the driveway won’t even let my gardener in.”

 _Of course you waste all this on a gardener,_ Bobbie thinks. Aloud she says, “I’ve never done weeding before.”

“It’s easy. Killing things you don’t like to protect things you do.” The hand on her back startles her again -- she didn’t hear Chrisjen get up, or move across the room. “Exactly what we both do already. Let me go change.”

Watching the lavender shimmer of her movements Bobbie has to agree that for once, a change is appropriate. Though she can’t remember agreeing to the idea. 

Also, she’s kind of offended. Now that she thinks of it. 

_Fuck me sideways_. What is it about this woman that makes her so… unguarded? 

“Hurry up this time, Chrisjen,” she calls a bit sourly. Whenever she shouts around the house something trembles precariously -- her voice isn’t exactly acclimated to delicate surroundings.

“Don’t you like it when I dress up?” the woman shouts back. “All this is just to please you, you know.”

Her stomach flips. In annoyance. “Something tells me that’s a dirty lie, ma’am.”

“Well. Maybe I dress up for both of us. But I _do_ want you to think I’m pretty, Draper.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She kicks at the piled rug petulantly, but it’s too squishy to be at all satisfying.

To her surprise and relief Chrisjen actually makes good time, swanning down the stairs within ten minutes. “Actual wars have been waged to gain my approval,” she’s saying almost to herself. “You just waltz in with your puppy eyes and your robot suit and get it for free, but do you even have the decency to compliment my outfits? No.”

Bobbie looks her up and down, keeping her expression flat. “White linen pants.”

“Ecru. But I’m proud of you for trying.” On the second-to-last step she’s almost of a height with Bobbie and she does a showy little turn, the dark mouth smug. “Do you approve?”

“In general? No.” She sighs. “Is that as practical as you’re going to get? Gauzy sari and pants?”

“And a sunhat. I’m not a complete flake.” With a little preening wiggle she adjusts the thin fabric over her shoulder. 

“Now _that_ , I would kill to see.”

“And you will.” She descends the last two steps and gestures with one hand -- “Behind you.”

Bobbie turns sharply, but Chrisjen just breezes past her to slide open a well-concealed closet door. “Where I come from that means ‘there’s a _threat_ behind you,’” she grumbles.

“Where _I_ come from, there’s a very low chance of monsters lurking in closets.” With a rustle she pulls out the object of her search. “Do you want your sunglasses?”

When she turns around Bobbie can’t help but give a shocked giggle. The woven sunhat is practically bigger than the woman under it, wide brim standing well past her shoulders.

“Oh my god. You’re adorable,” she manages, biting the inside of her cheek. “Sorry, I mean, admirable defense perimetre, ma’am.”

“Laugh all you want. Enjoy your melanoma,” Chrisjen sparkles in response. “Shall we?”

She takes a step to cross the house to the back door, stops. An immobilizing hand on her chest. “Shoes,” says the giant hat. “Take them off and carry them. These are hand-woven carpets.”

“Jesus. Really?” 

“Really.”

As she bends down to collect her offensive shoes Chrisjen pads out the door in bare feet. “Leave it open behind you,” she throws over her shoulder, “to let the weather in.”

Bobbie does not leave the door open, because that is stupid. She does, however, understand why someone would want to: outside the air is cool and sweet with green things, a hushed breeze ruffling her hair. It stills her for a moment, the happy ache, the jealousy. The irony. 

She tries to imagine living in a world like this. Realizes that she already does.

A shout startles her out of her sulking. “Down here.” The gentle slope behind the house is dotted with pretty stones and various decorative plant textures, but at the bottom Chrisjen is standing with her hand on one hip against a tall stand of what looks like tomato plants.

The smell around her changes as Bobbie lopes down to what must be the… vegetable patch? Is that the term? Where the upper part of the garden had a kind of perfumey air to it, this section smells like clean dirt and sunlight. Bobbie never knew that sunlight had a smell until she came here -- not here, this planet, but here this house. This woman.

“Wow,” she says, her voice not quite conveying how genuinely impressed she is. “That’s a lot of food. And you say people are starving?”

“I thought you might like the kitchen garden,” Chrisjen says as if she’s been proven right somehow. “Tomatoes, squash, zucchini, rhubarb -- that’s gone to seed -- root vegetables, berries…”

Bobbie follows her down the rows as she names each section, rings flashing with every gesture. She can’t help but let a little giddy excitement rise in her chest as they go -- a garden! To play in! Not a lab, not an ag-dome, just some dirt with growing things all around! A prickly leaf rips off in her hand and she brings it to her face with a private smile.

Eventually Chrisjen pauses and shrugs off her sari, revealing the thin sleeveless top she has on underneath. Her hands, pale against the navy linen, flutter for a moment as she brushes herself off and folds the sari neatly before setting it down. “Can you tell them apart?” she asks, waving towards the plot.

They’ve stopped at a patch of low, lacey greenery. Chrisjen folds her hands expectantly. Seeing her bare arms for the first time is a little distracting.

“Tell what apart?”

She sighs, bracing one hand on Bobbie’s arm to kneel -- kneel! In those pants! -- in the dirt. “Come,” she beckons. “On your knees, soldier.”

“That’s a bit explicit, Chrisjen,” she grins.

“Shut up. We’re weeding, not consummating our smouldering sexual tension. Too many drones, for one.” With one hand she waves vaguely about her head while the other pushes into soft earth, fingers spread. “I doubt you can even see the ground from your height.”

“I could, if your hat weren’t in the way.” She folds easily, laughing, when the hand grabs her leg and tugs her down impatiently. “No, really. Don’t they complain when you block the satellites?”

A cool, dry hand grasps her chin firmly. The brim of the hat pokes her forehead. “Hey. Focus. If you ruin my garden, I’m sending you back to the Martians.”

“Okay, okay. Hate to disappoint.” They’re very close together for a beat, private in the dappled shade of Chrisjen’s sunhat. Bobbie has the distinct impression that the small woman is searching her face. For what?

Then the hat withdraws and Chrisjen turns away, all bustle. “These tall ones are carrots. I trust you’ve heard of those? There should be one every three inches. Now, in between we get --” she points out a few stragglers, their leaves broad and flat as opposed to thin and airy. “Crabgrass, lambsquarters, mustard on occasion. Arjun likes to save the wild mustard for cooking, but he isn’t here and we’re not fucking pilgrims, so we won’t bother. Pull them out by the roots and pile them on the path.”

Bobbie’s brow knits as she takes it in. “How do I know if I make a mistake?”

“If you pull something up and it’s a carrot, just put it back in. Everything else has to die.”

“Vegetable genocide,” she nods. Biting her lip she repeats the names, pointing to each in turn. “Carrot, crabgrass, lamb something -- what’s that one?”

“You don’t need to know their names, Bobbie. I’m just trying to keep you busy so you stop tracking my every movement.”

 _You don’t need to know their names, Draper._ Forcing down the echo like bile Bobbie nods once, tersely, and slaps the ground. “Copy that, General.”

Once she gets the hang of it, glancing over every so often at Chrisjen’s efficient movements across the row, it’s actually very pleasant work. Sun on her back, dirt under her nails, she settles into a hypnotic rhythm. At one point, remembering the comment about mustard, she brings what she thinks must be it to her lips and nibbles experimentally -- it is most definitely not mustard, but the bitter green taste is thrilling in its own way. 

She finds herself humming some melody as she goes and plumbs her memory for the lyrics. _I will plant my soul on Mount Olympus, grow towards a home-made sun…_ a terraforming shanty from the early colonists. Corny.

It makes her a little sad, though, thinking about home. She misses the annoying red dust of it. The sky always starry, the quiet emptiness… all the bustle and noise of life contained to its own spaces but spreading, spreading. _This_ planet spreads nothing but carbon concrete. 

The ache in her chest catches her off-guard, though. It’s funny, she always thought the first time she’d get to work in a garden would be when she retired, respected and decorated, to the steppes of Olympus Mons. An above-ground house, a wife, maybe a husband too, some scrappy foster teens they would eventually adopt… 

Impossible now, of course.

And with that simple little acknowledgement, hundreds of millions of kilometres from home in a pile of dirt that’s entirely the wrong colour, Bobbie’s future falls neatly and quietly to dust.

The tears stinging her eyes take her aback somewhat and she wipes at her face quickly, smearing black earth across her cheeks. It’s not that she didn’t know what she was sacrificing when she made the series of decisions that brought her here, into this kitchen garden, with this frustrating little war criminal. She takes a deep steadying breath and stands. Stretches. She can deal with this. She’s dealt with worse.

After a few more false starts she’s able to unclench her fists and blinks against welling tears, throwing her head back to balance them back into her eyeballs and then _fallingfallingfalling_ \--

“Fuck!” Reeling back she barely misses toppling into the potatoes. The world spins around her and she can’t breathe, there’s no light --

“Bobbie? Bobbie!” The presence is blurry through the rush of fresh panicked tears, but then there are two cold hands steadying the shudder of her ribs. “Bobbie, don’t close your eyes, look at me -- breathe in from the earth, draw it through your stomach --”

Obediently she tries, unscrewing her eyelids to look back at Chrisjen. For a moment her face looks almost as panicked as Bobbie’s must be, but she blinks and it’s gone. “Breathe in from the cold earth,” she repeats as if reciting, “Draw it into your stomach, into your lungs, hold it in your head, there you go.”

Mortified by her gulping gasps Bobbie pulls herself together through sheer willpower, letting the tears run hot as she anchors herself in the hands running up and down her sides. “I fucking hate this fucking planet,” she hiccups, voice wavering. To her own ears she sounds... very small.

“It doesn’t hate you,” Chrisjen answers earnestly. “Where are your muscle relaxants?”

“I don’t take them. I don’t -- I don’t get panic attacks.”

“Right. You keel over and burst into tears for fun and profit.” Moving slowly, she loosens her grip on Bobbie’s sides and takes her hands one by one, squeezing them gently. 

Through the murky dizziness something clicks. “It’s your hands,” Bobbie says hazily. “You’re favouring the right. Your left barely moves.”

“You’ve had a shock,” says the low soothing voice. “I should have realized it would be too much. Let’s go home, hmm?”

And Bobbie, meekly, lets herself be gentled up out of the garden. She’s even a little relieved when Chrisjen takes off her sunhat to give to her, blocking out what’s left of the sky.

“Yeah,” she says quietly, ignoring for a moment the curl of disgust in her heart. “Let’s go home.”


	6. Cut Her Throat In The Wheat Fields

By the time she’s finished settling Draper in the sitting room upstairs, still trembling and protesting weakly, Chrisjen has mostly suppressed her own momentary panic. It caught her off-guard, which not many things do anymore -- how stimulating.

 _Not stimulating. Scary,_ she corrects, and makes a face. She decided long ago never to lie to herself, no matter how much that would hurt her, but the decades of polished doublespeak have been rotting her brain. 

_Here is the truth: Your Martian had a scare, and lost control. Seeing her in trouble frightened you, because she is your last line of defense and the only person left on this planet whom you can trust._

_No. Because you care about her, and you hate it when the people you care about are vulnerable._

_No. Because you care about her, and you hate it when the people you care about are imperfect._

“That’s a bit much,” she says out loud, one hand trailing the wall as she makes her way back down the stairs. “Saying hurtful things to yourself doesn’t count as truth, Avasarala. Be reasonable.”

_For a moment, when she shouted, you thought Bobbie had been hurt or taken down and your heart screamed._

“Very good. I’m proud of you.” The trick to being completely and utterly honest with oneself is to know when to stop -- not all truths are constructive, and it isn’t a lie to simply… refrain from discovering them.

It’s a delicate balance, and Chrisjen thrives on delicacy.

Once in the living room she pauses to take stock, hands on hips. Bobbie will want to be alone to lick her wounds, embarrassed and a little disappointed, but she’ll be alright within the hour. Then she’ll do some complicated exercise routine to clear her head, and then she’ll be hungry, so they’ll have four o’clock tea together and the matter will not be discussed. 

Chrisjen, for her part, needs to collect her discarded sari from the garden and while she’s there finish weeding and spacing the carrots. Also, cucumbers for their sandwiches at teatime -- Bobbie will be pleased, and feel better about the whole débacle.

There. Problem solved.

As she dons her sunhat and steps lightly down the garden path Chrisjen finds herself singing softly, absentmindedly. She’s been doing that a lot lately. 

The thought opens a well of carefully-curated nostalgia deep inside her and she all but sighs, stopping amid the beanstalks to gaze up at the sky. When this is all over she’ll be back to her streamlined office and the constant background noise of her mind running down two dozen threads at once. She misses that, the cool efficiency, the breakneck pace, but this brief period of respite hasn’t quite begun to bore her yet. Home has always bored her a little, she realizes with a distant smile. Home has never been enough.

“Oh, snap out of it.” Briskly she drops to her knees where she left off earlier and begins to work her hands into the earth, letting its rich smell invade her senses. See, this is why she needs to be running the world; her mind starts to eat at itself when she isn’t.

With some effort Chrisjen pulls out a deep-rooted dandelion, rocking back when it comes suddenly free. The jolt disturbs her thoughts and she realizes, somewhat irritably, that she has another migraine coming on -- there’s a dull pain stabbing into her left eye, faint but insistent. Fantastic. She rips another weed from the ground, snapping it at its stem, and has to dig around for a second to find the roots.

She sniffs. Despite the sureness of her hands Chrisjen has never been good at manual work -- why would she be? Her life has been solidly urban, elegantly upper-class, cradled in glass and steel and the certainty of never having to get one’s hands dirty.

And yet, and yet. Sourly she brushes her pants with damp hands, leaving crumbling black streaks. Apparently nothing is certain and nothing is clean, and the Undersecretary-General of the United Nations is doing farm work now. 

_You know who would love this, don’t you?_ comes the thought unbidden. _“Maman, if you spent more time outside you’d sleep better. Go help out on a farm or something, one of the heritage projects. Stop laughing! I’m serious!”_

The memory wrinkles her brow and she sniffs again, wiping her nose absently. Unscheduled thoughts of Charanpal are another sign of migraine, or at least something unraveling in her head. She’s so cross at herself for letting it happen that it takes her nearly a minute to realize that her hand came away red.

Blood red.

“Ah. Fuck,” she says flatly, and pinches her nose. Sure enough the wet feeling begins to trickle down her throat and she has to keep herself from coughing blood all over the kitchen garden. The day is just full of surprises.

Is she dying? Is that it? What a poetic way to go.

At least her Martian’s inside -- this is exactly the sort of thing she’d get all knotted up about. _Take your pills, Chrisjen. Call your neurologist, Chrisjen. I love you, Chrisjen. Don’t die, Chrisjen._ “You’re not my keeper,” she mutters nasally, and leans over so that she can let go of her nose. The blood splatters into the dirt, opaque crimson for a moment before disappearing. 

The Bobbie in her head ticks off solutions, but they all involve either using her clothes as handkerchiefs or calling for help. Chrisjen would rather bleed to death, so she stays where she is.

But of course -- it’s the Razorback, come back to taunt her. The blood vessels that burst then just didn’t heal properly, because she’s so fucking old. Experimentally she sticks out her tongue: copper and salt and something uncomfortably meaty. _You are but flesh_ , it implies, but the accusation is easy to dismiss.

So she’s not dying, not yet, though her lips are wet with gore. She must look like Medea at the end of her opera, or else a withering Kali having lost her scimitar. A vengeful sight. Unsettling.

Actually Chrisjen does have a scimitar somewhere. An antique, from a Turkish revival artisan; is it in storage, or did they bring it when they moved here? That would be something. There, Charanpal -- a hobby that takes your mother outside. 

As she contemplates sword fighting and whether it would be appropriate to ask her Martian to train together her left hand twitches impatiently. “I’m bleeding,” she complains, as if that’s ever stopped her from doing what needs to be done. 

Fine.

Slowly, carefully, she turns back to the weeding, taking care not to drip on her clothes. When she closes her eyes she can still see the turned earth and the broad leaves. Crabgrass, lamb’s quarters -- funnily enough she can’t remember where she learned those names. Are they even accurate? Maybe she’s been wrong this whole time. 

That would be _delightful._

“Yes, hello, I’m the most powerful woman on Earth, welcome to my garden. I have no idea what’s in it.” She smiles, then chuckles. “Isn’t the fate of humanity in my hands? Why yes, thank you for asking. Now I believe this here is some kind of squash.”

God. That’s another good reason to wear this hat: no-one can see her bleeding and giggling like an madwoman, talking to herself in the dirt. In a charming way, though; Chrisjen always projects a protective aura of charm. It’s why people are so drawn to her.

Is that a strange thing to think? Surely not.

Absently she wonders if Bobbie feels the same. It’s rare for Chrisjen to consider what people think about her beyond “how can I best manipulate them,” but the thought of her Martian stirs something almost maternal in her. She wants to hold her, to protect her, and she can’t do that if Bobbie rejects their closeness.

Of course the woman adores her, but does she know that? Does she _want_ that?

 _Don’t die, Chrisjen,_ says the Bobbie in her head, and perhaps that’s answer enough. But the Bobbie in her head may be… rather more insightful than the Bobbie in her home.

Also, this is definitely wild mustard she’s pulling now.

Chrisjen’s mind flits from topic to topic with practiced levity, letting the important thoughts develop without her interference. Occasionally she remembers that she’s actively bleeding and sniffs, stopping to guess at the volume of blood she’s lost, but that train of thought doesn’t engage her. It always looks worse than it is -- like menstrual blood, come to think of it. And both are excellent for plants, roses especially; her father used to feed bone meal to his.

For millennia it was common to bury the dead -- were there roses in the corpse-grounds? There must have been. 

When Chrisjen dies -- retires, that is -- the world will fall into chaos, she’s sure of it. And then what?

Serves it right for getting rid of her.

In the meantime, she’s finished her row and has decided that the garden can go to hell for all she cares. Her skull is starting to split, her nails are ruined; let the bitch choke.

When her nosebleed has abated enough to drip down her throat instead, Chrisjen wipes her hands on her pants again and prepares herself to stand, massaging her less-than-forgiving knees. _Here is the truth: your body is breaking down._

She huffs. Counts to three. Rises more or less smoothly, in one swift movement, and presses a hand to her forehead when all the blood rushes out of it. A strangled moan of pain escapes her as the promised migraine creeps in through her eyes and begins to liquefy her brain.

“Stop it. Pick up your sari,” she commands sternly, and obeys though it’s agony to bend down again. This would be an excellent time for Bobbie to swoop in and save her -- a pair of hands to do the lifting, to bring her painkillers, a broad soft chest to lay her aching head on for a moment… 

That familiar warmth rises in Chrisjen’s chest and she curses.

Cold times, she reminds herself sternly as she rummages through prickly vines for the right size of cucumber. This is a cold time -- when she’s released, when she has her office back, then she can run as hot as she likes. She can _burn._ But not now, not at home.

_Here is the truth: If you let yourself burn now, someone will suffer. There are only two of you left in this house._

It’s all a bit too much on a bloodless, migraine-addled head and she brushes the thought away, concentrating on her hands. With an inelegant grunt she breaks off a likely candidate -- a bit yellow on the underside, but it’ll have to do -- and trudges back up to the house. 

The smell of the peonies along the path is suddenly nauseating.

Home. Kitchen. Pain pills. Alright.

Bobbie is busy exercising in her room, which is good, because it gives Chrisjen time to rinse the dried blood off her face and compose herself somewhat. She needs to change, first of all, and to check on her poor Martian. Then tea, then work, then a late dinner, then bed. 

Something about this day has been… heavy. Unpleasant. She’ll be glad to see it over.

Because she never lies to herself, Chrisjen allows a few distinct thoughts to present themselves to her in sequence. The first is that she is exhausted. The second, that her mind has been racing with such disorganization that it really should trouble her. The third, that she’s been trying very hard not to care about Bobbie as much as she does. 

That’s a strange one -- why? It’s easy not to care. And, sure, maybe the woman doesn’t hide her lingering glances or her blushes very well -- she’s young, she’ll learn -- but Chrisjen is used to being adored, being wanted. 

_The problem is that I could want you, too, and that would not be prudent. I could burn for you._

“Sap,” she mutters to herself as she slips quietly into the bedroom. A hot flash is a hot flash, nothing more. She’s touch-starved and bored and her feelings are bruised by her body’s betrayal; it’s nothing, nothing, nothing.

Laboriously she begins to pull off her clothes, tossing them directly into the laundry processor. God, what was she thinking? The whole earth-mother living-off-the-land bit was just to impress Bobbie, and look where that got them. Now she has to come up with a whole new outfit to spend the evening inside.

Naked but for her jewelry Chrisjen steps into her closet with a determined pout and crosses her arms. A loose shift and a simple wrap, that’s all.

Three pieces in soft cream and navy. She lays them out, checks her hair. Sits down at the vanity and doesn’t feel like getting up again.

Her nail polish is rather the worse for wear, so she peels it off (a terrible habit) and files her nails down very, very short. There’s a bottle of the gold polish she likes already out. The acrid smell of it soothes her somewhat, lets her slow down a bit -- there’s something so meditative about perfecting one’s manicure.

Decades of practice have steadied her grip. The left hand goes smoothly, one coat of sealant, two coats of colour, one glossy top coat, and she shakes it out for a moment to let it dry. Then switches.

For some reason her right hand comes out a little messy. Manual labour will do that to you, she nods silently, mouth grim. No more weeding. Ever.

As she suspected Bobbie knocks on her door soon after, footsteps silent. “It’s open,” Chrisjen calls, “but give me a second. I’m not decent.”

“You’re never decent.”

The quick-drying polish has already set, but habit makes her careful as she pulls on her shift. When she comes out of the closet, flourishing a bit for effect, Bobbie is standing at attention in her room -- facing the wall.

“Oh, you can’t be serious. What would you have done if I’d been naked in bed?” she asks, equal parts irritated and impressed.

“Whatever you told me to, ma’am.” Without a hint of humour she peeks over her shoulder before turning around fully. “Can we…?”

“Yes. Please, come in.” Chrisjen sweeps her arm graciously, then sinks into one of the reading chairs. “What’s on your mind, Bobbie?”

Instead of sitting like any civilized guest, Bobbie tightens her posture and bites her lip almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to apologize for earlier,” she says, not quite meeting Chrisjen’s eyes. “I dropped my guard. That’s inexcusable.”

“I see.” Steepling her fingers, she purses her lips for a moment. “And you’re asking for punishment?”

Her Martian falters. “Well, I--”

“It’s a joke, Draper.” She waves one hand dismissively. “Will you take your relaxants next time we go outside?”

A nod.

“Then we shan’t speak of it. How do cucumber sandwiches sound for tea?”

The darling woman actually bites back a grin, trying and failing to hide her relief. “Good. Really good.”

Chrisjen smiles. Puts out one hand to be helped up. She doesn’t need it, but sometimes it’s nice to have another pair of hands to hold onto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo. This chapter was a roller coaster to write -- hope it reads a bit easier! I wanted to give a little insight into Chrisjen's thought process and uh. It turns out she's fucking _wild_ my dude.
> 
> As always, thanks and kisses for reading and for your lovely comments! And go take care of your gardens. The cold times are nearly over ;)


	7. The Chain

“Wait. Stop there.” Chrisjen’s hand falls on her waist, gently, halting her progress. “Before I forget.”

Bobbie’s breath catches at the unexpected contact and she does stop, in mid-step. Her employer isn’t looking at her, fiddling with her hand terminal, and for a moment they’re inexplicably entangled and still in the middle of the hallway.

A whooshing noise. Her own terminal dings.

“The house library. I took the liberty of making you a resident.” The small woman gazes up at her in that strange way she has sometimes, searching her face intently. “Do you mind?”

The hand on her waist hasn’t moved, resting lightly across her body as Chrisjen stands as if to pass her. But doesn’t.

“Do I mind… having access to the library?”

“Being a resident.” At Bobbie’s confused stare she pauses for a moment and reiterates. “As opposed to staff.”

“Oh. Is there a difference?”

She laughs a bit, almost to herself, then pats Bobbie’s waist affectionately and withdraws her hand. “Nevermind.” Her voice is tinged with an annoyingly pointed amusement. “Take the day to yourself, hmm? I never really needed your opinion on these briefs, anyways.”

“I know where you sleep, Chrisjen. Be nice.”

“Oh, don’t get sore. You know as well as I do where your assets lie.” With a little frown she glances back at her terminal almost automatically, then huffs and makes her face bright. “We both need a break, don’t you think?”

Bobbie takes a moment to consider this. Despite all her complaints of boredom, Chrisjen looks… pressed. Even the TV smile that usually covers for her uncertainties isn’t quite meeting her eyes.

“Huh,” she says aloud, still half in thought. “When did you figure that out?”

“You’re not my fucking therapist. Go watch some nature documentaries.” The swearing seems to cheer her up a bit and she smiles a little more genuinely this time, turning to leave. “Use the screen upstairs. I need the living room for tai chi.”

“Since when do you do tai chi?” Bobbie echoes blankly, to Chrisjen’s already-receding back. Which, typical -- she’ll do something nice, let down her hair for a moment, and then disappear.

Is it an Earther thing? Maybe Chrisjen’s just a dick. Well, she’s definitely a dick, but Bobbie kind of thought they had something special.

Something special… She wonders, sometimes, if they could ever be friends. What it would take to make that happen. Bobbie’s starting to realize she wouldn’t mind sleeping with this particular enemy -- metaphorically speaking, that is.

Kss. Nature documentaries. Is that what Chrisjen thinks she likes?

Well, she did just get the day off, whatever that means. It’s not as if she’s been working tirelessly at this bodyguard/aide thing lately.

As she climbs the stairs, military training making her obedience almost automatic, she opens up the new link on her hand terminal’s home page. A pause to load, and then a welcome screen -- _Good morning, Bobbie. Media in progress: 0. Notifications: 0. Reading list: 5._

The family room is a comfy space, arranged in such a way that people can converse easily no matter where they sit and the big screen in one corner is mostly hidden by an elegant folding shutter. When she goes over to open it, already rolling her eyes, she discovers that it’s made of real wood-fibre paper.

“Now that’s just showing off. What’s wrong with hemp?” 

It still throws her off to see things built for pure unsustainable aesthetics. Even the most delicate furnishings on Mars are designed with a subtle practicality, because that’s what Martians _do_. This is just an interesting texture in a room already full of them. Useless.

Though the rough natural-style pulp does smell lovely up close -- soft, and somehow piney.

With a movement just a tad more careful than she’s used to being Bobbie draws it back and returns to the couch, a brief irritation rising in her shoulders. Even now, the old feeling of being too big and awkward for her surroundings makes her wince.

There are two effective solutions to this, and the first -- leaning into the feeling, barging into spaces like she owns them -- requires too much energy. But distraction works just as well.

“Okay, Madam Avasarala. Day off commencing in three.”

And… well, she can’t really remember the last time she had nothing to do.

She toys with the idea of watching a movie, something she’s seen before. Silly old horror flicks always used to calm her, but lately she’s been weirdly uncomfortable with the idea of them -- the hunt, the gore. The monsters.

They just don’t seem that silly anymore.

Without really thinking about it she shuts her eyes for a moment, but that just makes the memory clearer and they pop open again just as quickly. “Okay! No movie! Moving on!”

The last time Bobbie read anything for fun was during a particularly tedious transit out to the Jovian system, back in the old days. The journey took her through three and a half books in an old-Earth series about some sandy fictional planet and a superdrug creatively called “spice,” the least boring option on the transport’s system. It was fanciful, to say the least, and painfully dense at parts, but it was better than the company. 

And besides, she liked the giant worms. 

For the life of her, though, she can’t remember what it was called. Probably for the best -- it wouldn’t stand up to a second reading, or indeed any reading where you had literally anything else to do instead. 

On a whim she activates the voice control on her terminal. “Connect to the main screen,” she says, and then, because she was raised right: “Please and thank you. Okay, what should I do?”

There’s a little electronic chime, and an elegantly genderless voice emerges from hidden speakers. Would you like to view your recommendations?

“I have recommendations? Based on what?”

_Preferences and reading list set by user C. Avasarala. Last modified at oh-two-hundred hours._

“In the _morning?_ ”

_Affirmative._

“Huh. Not surprised.” She falls silent for a moment, letting the information sink in, until the terminal makes an inquiring bloop. “Does everyone get an account? Can I see the other users?”

_Displaying resident users._ The screen blinks to life before her.

[Main Library] -- [Arjun] -- [C. Avasarala] -- [Suri!] -- [Kiki’s Things] -- [B. Draper] -- [Sort by Media Type].

“Well now I just feel special.” A pause. “What’s Avasarala reading these days?”

_Clarify._

She huffs. “My Avasarala. Chrisjen. What’s she reading, can I look?”

Almost instantly the display switches to two neat folders labelled, amusingly, [Work] and [Play]. “Well obviously I have to go with Play, here. Does she really talk like that just, like, to herself?”

_Clarify._

“I’m switching back to manual now. You’re not a person.”

The system makes no effort to argue as she taps the folder. And it’s nice, she muses, that Chrisjen entered her as Bobbie instead of Roberta. 

As she scrolls through the virtual bookshelves she isn’t expecting to recognize anything her employer reads, but a few of the English titles do stand out. "Germinal" -- Chrisjen was talking about that last week. "The Sun and All Its Children." "Haikus for the Atomic Age." "Tales of Eva Luna," which has a naked woman on the cover. "De Principatibus/Il Principe," and lower down on the list what must be an English translation of the same text: "The Prince." It’s almost endearing. 

Out of curiosity Bobbie selects the sun book and has it transferred to her personal library, which she can do because she’s a resident. As opposed to staff. Which is another important thing, apparently, although she hasn’t exactly figured out how.

She takes a small round pillow to tuck under her back, which has been rather stiff lately, and starts to read.

_We were sitting on the roof, Jusuf and I, when Kolkata fell. We had no way of knowing this of course and it would be another few hours before the news reached us, but there was a kind of sick understanding in our conversation already…_

That’s an idea. Isn’t there roof access at one of these windows? A quick inspection reveals that she is indeed correct, and that she can only just wiggle through the tall frame to step out onto the little landing. 

It’s easier this time, being under the sky. She has something to focus on, and the wall of the house keeps her balance steady. Hopefully Chrisjen won’t need her attention anytime soon, though -- she isn’t sure how quickly she can clamber back into the house. If someone comes to kill Madam Undersecretary this morning, they’ll have to take the old lady on directly.

That might not turn out as well as they’d hoped, to be honest.

Carefully Bobbie settles onto the slanted surface, making sure that nothing creaks under her weight, and returns to her book. 

_In the orange heat of high summer Jusuf became contemplative, always staring out towards the sun. He would ask me to define abstractions, needed the image of a binding rope to understand human connection or a blooming mould for grief..._

Three hours later some internal timer goes off and Bobbie realizes that she’s starving.

She blinks. She forgets sometimes how single-mindedly she can focus on things, for better or worse.

The ground floor is bright white with the noon sun, making her squint as she descends the last steps. If it weren’t for her pride she’d wear shades more often, she realizes. This whole floor is just windows.

“Ah. Bobbie.” In the living room Chrisjen has moved aside furniture and is standing in the middle of the carpet, serene as anything, holding… a sword. Huh. “Just in time,” she beckons. “Come be my distance marker.”

As far as surprises in the Avasarala house go, this one is fairly tame, actually. Bobbie sighs, reconciling herself to her impending warrior’s death by sword fighting accident, and obeys.

For the occasion Chrisjen is wearing a tight-fitting tank top, the first practical thing Bobbie has seen her in since her employment began. Somehow it suits her just as well as the drapery -- though her pants are very wide and fluttery and _silver_ , which sort of makes up for the effect.

“Is that thing even allowed under your house arrest?” she asks as she steps over the coffee table and tries not to look to hard at her employer’s waist.

“Since when do I give a flying fuck what I’m allowed?” With a neat slice of the curved blade she brings her feet back together and points it downward, grimacing. “What it _is_ , is entirely the wrong shape for tai chi. I honestly can’t remember why I own a scimitar in the first place.”

And with a shrug she tosses it -- _tosses!_ \-- on the couch, waving her forward. “Come, come. That was just an experiment anyways.”

Bewildered and oddly resigned Bobbie lets herself be grasped by unusually warm hands and placed at the edge of the carpet.

“Stay there,” Chrisjen says, patting her arm, and then turns and counts out seven steps. “How was your morning?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Good. I read a book for the first time in forever.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” Reaching her mark she turns to face her again, widening and lowering her stance. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I think so.” She looks on with curiosity as Chrisjen sweeps her arms wide, then begins to advance with complex, measured steps. “The writing was a little dramatic. Are you gearing up to punch my lights out, ma’am?”

She chuckles, never pausing in her movements. “If I could reach them from down here, I might.” In another two steps she reaches Bobbie and throws her whole tiny body into a mock punch. Her movements, perfect in form but slowed down to a practiced mimicry, give again the impression that she’s somehow underwater.

The three large rings on her right fist make contact with Bobbie’s solar plexus, nudging into her ribs.

A pause.

“One hit kill, ma’am,” she deadpans. 

“Don’t make fun of me, Bobbie,” Chrisjen pouts, delivering another, somewhat sloppier hit for effect. “Not when I work so hard to impress you.”

“Chrisjen, you took out a _sword_. Like, a _metal_ sword. For _fighting_. If I were any more impressed I’d probably wet my pants.”

“Well there’s no need to be suggestive.” She half-smiles, pressing one palm to Bobbie’s chest. “Here. Feel that?”

A quick, unconscious intake of breath. “What am I looking for?”

She shrugs. The warmth of her hand begins to spread into Bobbie’s skin, between her ribs. “Purpose and validation, like the rest of us. But what I’m trying to convey is... hmm.” A new wrinkle forms at her brow, just for a moment. “The chain.”

To her surprise Bobbie actually understands this, finds herself nodding. “Interpersonally, you mean? The… the responsibility?”

The big dark eyes glint with pride. “Look at you and your multisyllabic vocabulary.”

“I’m right, though.”

“Uh-huh.”

They stay like that for a few seconds, staring at each other. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson, Chrisjen?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t presume.” As easily as she formed the connection she breaks away, backing up again to bend with surprising flexibility into a low stretch. “It’s just been on my mind lately, how people connect. What that means.”

“Yeah.” Feeling a frown forming, Bobbie looks on guardedly. For what seems like the millionth time this year, she feels… like something dangerous is happening. Something that she doesn’t know how to deal with. “Yeah. Mine too.”

And without waiting for permission, she steps back out of the makeshift ring to make her way into the kitchen. Lets herself breathe out, and take up a little more space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless @runawaynun for permanently lodging the concept of sword!Chrisjen in my brain. If you haven't read _It Is Good In My Lady's House,_ go do that right now!
> 
> On another note (pun intended) I thought this might be a good time to share my writing playlist for Bobbie's POV! [Let me know what you think...](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4JyUHLsJGPuUeSgclo5Hon?si=9YgxKUaDTZubBagKA8gpMg)


	8. Partita for Eight Voices Out of Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really meant to establish a regular schedule but it's Out Of Touch Thursday... can't argue with that.

_The detail of the pattern is movement. The detail of the pattern is movement._ She stares intently at the mirror, careful to think only of her own eyes and the nonsense words running through her head. _The detail of the pattern is to the side, to the side and around -- the detail of the pattern…_

No dice. Reciting the _Allemande_ is usually so clarifying.

With a screwy little frown Chrisjen glances back at her terminal and the short message there. _The detail of the pattern is…_ It could be genuine, of course. Esteban always had mommy issues, they all do, and they all look to her with a kind of sticky twisted need. The stunted motherfuckers.

It certainly sounds self-pitying enough to be him. She finds herself grinding her teeth as she reads it again.

_Chrisjen --  
Please just hear me out. I know I’ve hurt you, and I pray to God that this hasn’t broken your faith in the world. I come to you now on my knees, begging for help. The fate of the Earth is at stake, Chrisjen, and you were the one who taught me that Earth must come first -- will you set aside our differences for the sake of humanity’s cradle?   
Help me fix things. Help me fix everything.  
Ever yours,  
\-- Esteban._

God, it’s enough to make her stomach turn. That’s actually fairly good indication that it really is from the Secretary-General. There’s something about it, though, something that rings wrong -- usually having Sorrento-Gillis on his knees for her would feel like a win, but... 

He’s been humiliated, sure, but not enough that he can’t come back from it if he plays his cards right. So why is Chrisjen not enjoying this sudden reversal of power?

She shakes her head twice, quickly, dislodging a long lock of hair that falls into her eyelashes. Thinking about it won’t help, she reflects sagely as she puts down her terminal to tuck her hair back up. The answer will come, as it always does, when she isn’t looking.

As her palm crosses her face she realizes vaguely that Bobbie was right, that she keeps forgetting to use her left hand. Although that shouldn’t mean anything -- most people favour one hand over the other, and Chrisjen only uses both so that she can take notes on two tablets at once. Which she doesn’t need to do very often, anymore. So there.

_But what does he want?_ presses the part of her brain that thinks these things always, even in dreams. _What can I use this for?_

It takes physical effort to ignore the thought, though she must. Premature speculation has never done her any favours.

The hand terminal beeps and she ignores it, focusing on the eight simultaneous parts she’s singing in her head. _To the side, to the side, to the side and around, through the middle and/Far and near, and all around/The detail of the pattern is/And around and around and around and_

“Fuck!”

Her hand shoots out as if to hit something, knocks her terminal to the floor with a clatter. Chrisjen has to resist the urge to grind it under her heel.

She _hates_ this part.

Even at the best of times, back in her office with the world at her fingertips, waiting for the solutions to come to her whole was damn near painful. Now, stranded as she is with two thousand extra barriers between her and the information she needs…

Deep breaths. _The detail of the pattern is five, six, seven, eight,_ and it’s just a lag, as if she’s in space waiting for communications. At least the gravity here is correct. 

But what on Earth will she wear?

The dissonant thought gives her pause and she frowns slightly, tracing it back. What will she wear in the video response (because it has to be video)? Something just casual enough to say that she doesn’t care too much, but elaborate enough that he won’t think she’s losing her flair. “He” being the Sec-Gen, whom she has decided to respond to, because the message is genuine and something big is about to happen. Something dangerous.

The smile comes tentatively, dancing around the corners of her mouth. _Avasarala, you’ve still got it._

_Faa-ar and near,_ croons the long-dead vocalist in her head, _and all around._

So. Sorrento-Gillis is about to do something she won’t like, and he needs to bring her in before she can stop him. Which means that she still has enough power to do so.

When she explains all this to Bobbie, though, over an underseasoned but interesting Martian-style lunch, there’s a bit of catching-up to do.

“Let me get this straight,” her Martian says yet again, sitting on the floor by the coffee table and still dominating the room by far. “He _is_ trying to entrap you, but not to prolong your sentence. He really does need your help, but he wants to have control over you while you give it.”

“Correct,” Chrisjen nods, popping another mushroom into her mouth. “Is that a hint of cardamom I detect?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, you mentioned you liked it. But, wait --” she shakes her head -- “what does that have to do with me braiding your hair?”

“Well, I need to look good on camera. I can hardly respond in my house clothes.”

Bobbie drops her gaze to Chrisjen’s glittering matinée necklace, following the clusters of jewels that climb down her cleavage. “Uh-huh.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, Draper. Can you make a fucking Jupiter braid or not?”

“Wh-- _yes_ , I can do a Jupiter braid. Jesus. Far be it from me to want to actually understand the situations you’re throwing yourself into.”

“Aww. You really do care.” She’s trying to make light of the situation, letting her voice go plummy and coy, but her Martian’s brow is still furrowed in concentration. Chrisjen feels an unexpected surge of affection.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Bobbie is saying thoughtfully. “Why a personal message? He could just as well have infiltrated your intelligence feeds, or come to you officially. Has he ever done anything like this before?”

“You mean, whined for a tit to suck on?” She rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother to hide the disgust. “Only every time he has to make a difficult decision.”

“Okay. So what difficult decision is he making now?”

Chrisjen opens her mouth. Closes it again. Grinds her teeth.

“It could be any number of things,” she manages finally. 

The frustration returns tenfold, squeezing the air from her lungs. _Far and near._ She activates the coffee table’s holodisplay, tiny electrical charges humming at her fingertips as she scrolls through her files. “The war, the protomolecule, some new thus-far-unheard of threat… I’m too far away to know for sure. It would take a day at least to query.”

“Query?”

“My sources. There has to be some discrepancy, some new information I haven’t received yet.” Forgetting that their lunch is still on the low table she reaches up to open a folder and her loose sleeve drags in the couscous. “Mother _fucker._ ”

“Here.” Her Martian gathers up the plates in one hand and, when Chrisjen makes as if to take them from her, lifts them easily out of her reach. In one smooth motion she rises from her cross-legged position, suddenly towering. “You should query.”

“I don’t _want_ to query,” she grumbles. “I want my office back.”

“Would you also like a pony, ma’am?”

“Yes. Fuck you.”

The woman actually has the audacity to pat her head as she makes her way back to the kitchen. Needless to say, this does nothing to relieve Chrisjen’s irritation. A hot violence rises up in her chest, pouring out in Bobbie’s direction because son of a _whore_ sometimes she just wants to sink her teeth into that infuriating woman’s throat and eat her whole.

There is no convenient outlet for these feelings, of course, so instead she grinds her teeth. Sighs. Queries. _The detail of the pattern is movement_. It will take nine hours at least for her source to even decipher the heavily-encrypted message.

From the kitchen there’s a clatter and the sound of the dish processor powering up, then running water. “Do you want tea?”

Alright, so maybe the sudden lust for violence was… somewhat misplaced. “Please.” Suppressing a grunt of effort Chrisjen rises from the floor and promptly discovers that her left leg has gone completely numb -- marvelous. When she was Bobbie’s age she never had such problems.

“Let’s see,” says her Martian when she enters the kitchen. “Green tea in the morning, black in the afternoon, white in the evening, right?”

Okay, _very_ misplaced. “Uh-huh.” Lingering in the doorway Chrisjen tilts her head and feels the weight of her brain shift. Tilts it the other way. The weight shifts again. Huh.

“Everything okay, ma’am?”

Dismissing the thoughts of impending migraine she turns her gaze to the bright young thing before her, and smiles. Privately, she’s very proud of her Martian. Very fond. Despite the almost overwhelming desire, sometimes, to bite her.

“Don’t call me ma’am, Bobbie. We’ve been over this.”

She rolls her eyes at that, makes a face. “Sorry. Habit.” Turning to set the kettle she pauses. “Are you okay, though?”

Chrisjen smooths her skirts. Of course she’s not okay. What about this situation is okay? She’s tired and bored and almost sick with frustration, her leg is still tingling unpleasantly, and for the past four days she’s had so little control over her state of mind that she’s having mood swings again, like during her terrible second pregnancy. 

It’s only when Bobbie makes a noise of assent that she realizes she forgot to answer. Apparently her silence was more than enough.

It was also an unforgivable lapse. With a deep breath and an internal shake she slips into the familiar mask, feeling her eyes begin to sparkle and the smile return to her lips. “Poor thing, it must be awful to have me whining at you every day of the week. I’m sure I’m not paying you enough.”

The sudden change in tone seems to arouse her suspicion. “Well, I’m stuck with you,” she says cautiously.

“You are.”

Five full seconds pass. The bright mask begins to weigh on her.

Bobbie breaks first, though, because of course she does. “Tea,” she blurts, then looks embarrassed. “Do you have a preference? I don’t recognize all the labels.”

“You wouldn’t. Some of these are very exclusive.” In a smooth rearrangement of silk she’s at the woman’s side, resting a light hand on her back. For dominance. “For example, this artisan retired, oh, twenty years ago,” she explains, taking a jar from the shelf. “But she still makes some small batches just for us. My husband can be very charming when he wants to be.”

Obediently Bobbie takes the proffered jar, opens it carefully. The rich smell blooms like a prize peony. “Very nice, ma’am.”

Chrisjen frowns. “Sergeant?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Squeezing her eyes shut she shakes her head tightly. “I can’t stop thinking about the Sec-Gen. I’m sorry.”

Irritation settles at her shoulders for a moment, then guilt, then a tender kind of understanding. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with her own aches and pains she would have noticed her Martian’s unusually stiff posture. “Of course. I should have known -- here, let me.”

Carefully she puts away Arjun’s good black tea and closes the cabinet. “You need something to distract yourself. What have you been working on, lately?”

“Ma’am?”

“Personal projects. Maybe you’ve taken up birdwatching? I know it’s not gardening.”

Mercifully Bobbie seems to find that funny, some of the nervous formality easing from her stance. “I’m… I’m still practicing. Being outside, I mean.”

“Perfect. Go do that.”

The warm eyes look down at her, puzzled, but Chrisjen has suddenly realized just how much she wants to be alone. Something is wrong with her mask -- it’s heavy to-day, somehow slippery. “Go play outside, Bobbie. That’s an order.”

It isn’t too hard to convince her, and once she’s been shooed out of the kitchen Chrisjen feels herself sagging against the counter. The detail of the pattern has her head buzzing.

“Movement,” she states firmly, quietly, as she casts about for her old spice mill. She’s been craving a really good masala chai for some time now. 

And collecting the spices does calm her somewhat, lets her breathe a little more easily. She takes the kettle and empties it into a glass pot, turning on the cooktop for the first time in ages. The best tea is made with twice-boiled water.

Nutmeg -- check. Cinnamon -- check. Cardamom -- where Bobbie left it, barely out of place, good girl. Black pepper, cloves, ginger. It’s always so satisfying to grind spices, reduce them to dust. Revive them.

The water boils, and she moves to take it off the element. There’s an odd sensation on one side of her face; she blinks it away. Pinches her left cheek, with her right hand -- only because the other is already reaching for the pot.

Later, when she comes back to her senses, she will realize that it was her own fault. Now, though, staring puzzled at this stranger’s hand wearing her nail polish, Chrisjen can’t quite understand what’s happening until it’s too late --

And for a moment the world is white-hot, static, and blessedly silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :o)
> 
> Why yes, I _do_ have [a playlist for Chrisjen.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0WFXIoC0bB6Dzc6kWUVBMl?si=kzKODSFiQQiViJQ975igMA) I do not take constructive criticism (okay, maybe SOME but "grandma plays the numbers" is non-negotiable I have REASONS).


	9. Aloe Vera

When Bobbie heard the cry -- because she did hear it, in the pit of her stomach where it would remain for days -- she went through three very rapid emotional states. First: utter bewilderment at her own stupidity. Second: the cold analytic dread of knowing that it would take her eleven seconds to sprint back up to the house and that in that time Chrisjen might already be dead. Then: nothing but a blinding, panting rage.

By the time she reaches the kitchen just about the only thing that could stop her in her tracks -- short of a nuclear strike -- is the sight of her employer, naked from the waist down, using her discarded skirt and petticoat to mop the kitchen floor.

Unfortunately, this is exactly what she sees.

In the few seconds it takes to reboot her brain, Chrisjen has stopped trying to wash the floor with beaded silk and is looking up at her with a wan smile. “How was your jog?”

“Ma’am, what the fuck?”

“Just a little household accident, Bobbie. I, ah --” There’s a dangerous instability to her as she rises, collecting her rumpled skirts. “Well, why don’t you--”

“Oh my god, did you pour boiling water all over your lap?” Without pausing to think Bobbie rushes to her and pulls away the pile of wet silk. She only has a moment to thank fortune that Chrisjen isn’t _completely_ naked when her eyes fall upon the angry red blotches covering her thighs.

“Jesus. Okay, we can -- we can deal with the mess later. Sit down.”

“I’m a grown fucking woman, Draper, I can take care of myself.”

“Chrisjen, please, just let me.” She’s already switched into problem-solving mode, letting the practiced leadership take over her panic. “I’ve treated so many suit burns I can do it with my eyes closed.”

Now that she knows what to look for, it shocks her how well Chrisjen hides her obvious pain. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s just brought a good deal of her skin off, there would only be the thin wavering of her voice to give her away.

“Why so many?” she’s asking carefully, pupils so wide they’ve engulfed her irises. “Typical Martians, making armour that boils their soldiers alive.”

She takes that as assent. “Only if you mistreat it.” Slowly, gently, she takes her arm and leads her to sit down in the dining area. “The joints leak lubricant when it isn’t replaced often enough.”

“Huh,” Chrisjen says conversationally. Then, in a posh and casual tone: “Idiot motherfucking mother of whores.”

It takes a second for Bobbie to realize that she was talking to herself. “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Wait here, I’ll get the medkit.”

“No, I don’t -- just get some aloe vera. It’s in the living room,” Chrisjen calls after her. “I don’t need bandages.”

“Some what?”

“The big, thorny succulent. Imagine yourself as a plant.” There’s a pause and a shuddering breath that might have been a laugh. “Break off a spike, it’s good for burns.”

Bobbie rounds the corner, already rummaging through the aluminium case. “Yeah, I think burn gel is good for burns,” she says. “I’m not about to trust your healthcare to a vegetable.”

“And yet, I trust it to a gun-toting army brat who can’t identify one of the most common houseplants on Earth.”

“Hey. This gun-toting so-and-so brought you a robe to preserve your honour.” She holds it out. “For what it’s worth.”

“Your right. I’m sorry.” Chrisjen sighs. “That was uncalled for.”

“Wow.” She blinks. “Maybe I should call the paramedics --?”

“Just get the goddamn gel, Bobbie.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Obediently she grabs the appropriate tube from the medkit and kneels in front of her charge, trying and failing not to smile a bit. “If you’ll just spread your legs for me, please?”

To her relief Chrisjen bites off a short laugh. “You know, in another world, this would have been the beginning of a very memorable evening.”

“Agreed.” She lets her rearrange the robe as she parts her knees, hissing when the fabric brushes damaged skin. “Do you want an anaesthetic shot?”

“It’s not an amputation, Draper. Just get on with it.”

And she tries. She really does. The burned area is starting to swell, now, though no blisters seem to be forming, which is good -- and then the intrusive thoughts that plague her at night begin to nudge at the corners of her mind as she moves up. The softer, more sensitive skin inside her thighs seems mostly unharmed except for zigzagging indentations -- stretch marks, like Bobbie’s own, but plush instead of taut -- and the pale soft flesh looks almost... velvety…

A slight, amused cough from above jolts her back to the task at hand. Resisting the urge to mumble an apology Bobbie busies herself with the medication, taking a moment to warm the clear gel in her palm. “It’s a good thing you wear so many layers,” she begins absently. “I had a friend in mechs who got a really bad steaming and went into shock.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“Just trying to distract you.” Gingerly Bobbie starts to test the flushed edges of the burns and draws back when Chrisjen actually whimpers. “Should I --”

She shakes her head once, mouth set in a thin line. “Distract me, then. Tell me about your -- your idiot friend.”

Making her fingers delicate she takes a moment to knead the healthy skin just above Chrisjen’s knee. “Focus on what I’m doing here, okay?” Slowly, with the other hand, she begins to spread gel over the harsh red blotches. “When it’s water that burns you,” she explains, “the skin just… sucks it in. No matter how much damage it takes. Then the nerve endings start to fry -- water is treacherous that way.”

“Like, mmh, like cytolysis.”

“What?”

“Kiki -- my eldest, Kiki, they were obsessed with cellular biology last year. The processes, they’re automatic…” Her voice trails off as she takes a deep, steadying breath. “There’s no protocol for stopping the intake of water. A cell can burst that way, break down under the pressure.”

“Tell me about them. Your grand… child.” When she reaches a particularly injured area Bobbie increases the pressure on her left hand, kneading and massaging hard enough to draw attention away from the shock of the gel. “They’re into science?”

Chrisjen makes a noise in her throat that sounds almost like a moan and squeezes her eyes shut, but her tone is even. “Yes. Well, they like learning how things work -- then teaching me. Or lecturing, rather.” A fond smile begins to play around her lips. “Suri is very quick, very charismatic, but Kiki is much smarter, I suspect. Of course, they _are_ named after me.”

When Bobbie manages to process the implications of that she almost stops working. “Wait. Kiki is short for _Chrisjen?_ ”

The thigh under her hand tenses and she looks up in time to see her charge’s eyes snap open in a defensive frown. “What if it is?”

“Then I will never let you live it down.” She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, and fails. “UN Undersecretary Kiki Avasarala.”

“Shut up.” To Bobbie’s relief her voice is almost back to normal, thrumming with irritation. “I’ll fire you. I’ll have you thrown in jail to rot.”

“You just don’t seem as threatening to me now, _Kiki_. I don’t know, _Kiki,_ can you really say things like that anymore, _Kiki?_ ”

A pedicured foot shoots out to kick her lightly in the knee and Chrisjen’s expression becomes dangerously cold. “Come here and say that again, Sergeant. See what happens.”

There’s a pause, and then Bobbie smiles, leaning forward just a bit so that the knees before her part ever so slightly. “You want me to come closer?” she asks. "Is that it?"

And for once, Chrisjen says nothing.

It scares her a bit. “I’m finished tending your battle wounds, ma’am," she says finally. "You’re free to go.”

She blinks, eyes dark, and nods slowly as if just waking. “Right. Thank you, Bobbie.”

“How d’you feel?” As casually as she approached she draws back and wipes her hands on her leggings. “It might sting a bit while it heals, or itch.”

“Both. Very much so.” Gingerly she settles her robe back over her knees, testing, and nods to herself stoically. “I won’t be wearing lace anytime soon.”

“Are you sure you don’t want the anaesthetic?”

“Oh, a bit of pain once in a while is bracing. It clears the mind.”

“Masochist. Drink, then?” She stands, brushing invisible dust off her knees, and the helps Chrisjen up when an elegant hand beckons.

“Really, Bobbie, you could at least have offered before you got between my legs,” she quips as she makes her way towards the stairs. “Let me just change into something more comfortable.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I mean, my undergarments are soaked already.”

“Okay, Chrisjen.”

“And my thighs are all sticky from your --”

“I’m going to call the media. I’m going to tell them all about your squishy --”

The ruby necklace is thrown at her with such precision that Bobbie is sure that, were it not for her military training, she would have died instantly.

“Nickname. I’ll tell them your nickname.”

There’s a scoff from halfway up the stairs and Bobbie sighs, leaving the necklace on the floor while she goes to retrieve two glasses. It does give her a little thrill to treat expensive things as flippantly as this Earther does. Hell, half the bottles in the “everyday” section of the drinks cabinet would cost nearly a month’s salary for any normal human being.

When she returns to the kitchen she finds, gratefully, that the glass pot Chrisjen overturned is intact -- not even chipped from the fall. And as she mops up the floor with a decorative dishcloth, adrenaline finally subsiding, she pauses. Something isn’t right.

“Did something startle you?” she calls, aiming her voice somewhere she hopes will reach the bedroom. “When you dropped it, I mean?”

“ _What?_ ” Chrisjen shouts back.

“Did something startle you?”

“I can’t hear you, Bobbie.”

“ _Did. Something. St--_ ”

“Fuck’s sake, Draper,” comes a husky voice directly behind her. “All those years of military service and you can’t climb one goddamn flight of steps? _What?_ ”

“Wh --? Since when do you walk so quietly?”

“Since I started using your frankly _earsplitting_ voice to cover my tracks.”

With her hands busy unwinding the long braids of her updo, Chrisjen speaks almost absentmindedly. Instead of putting together a new outfit, as Bobbie half-expected, she’s slipped into a shapeless gold sundress with thin strappy sleeves. She did, however, change her earrings, and add a heavy looking new necklace to match, because of course she did.

“Wow.” Bobbie isn’t sure whether to laugh or whistle in appreciation. “Those are your comfy clothes?”

Chrisjen raises an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”

“Well, I mean…” She gestures vaguely, indicating the thick rope of precious stones. “You don’t look very… casual.”

“I’m not wearing a bra, Bobbie. And these are _raw_ sapphires. How much more casual do you want me to be?”

She blinks. “I honestly don’t know what I expected. Bourbon or rum?”

“Bourbon, obviously.” When she lets her hair fall, it reaches all the way down her back. “You can bring it to the sunroom.”

And with a regal swivel Chrisjen floats out of the kitchen, leaving a very flustered ex-marine in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this is actually the first chapter I wrote for Six O'Clock Bird! How far we've come together...


	10. I've Been the Ruin of Many

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some housekeeping: I forgot to mention this in Chapter 9 but since Kiki (Chrisjen's older grandchild) uses different pronouns in the books vs the series, they're genderfluid now (I don't make the rules and no way this futuristic society is full of cis people lol). In this series I'll be referring to them by they/them pronouns, for clarity, so don't worry about mixing people up haha

It takes some effort to push the fear and the quivering pain down to a throb, like she learned to do so long ago. In the back of her mind she knows she’ll pay for it later, and despite herself her stomach clenches in dread at the thought. There was a time when she could take the most horrible cramps, the crack of an overzealous whip, even once a gunshot to the shoulder in her stride -- what happened to her? What weakened her?

Age, she supposes, as she pulls her mind up out of her body (this, at least, still comes easily). And comfort -- it softens you, if you aren’t careful.

When they built this house, there was a long discussion about cardinal directions. Arjun wanted south-facing windows everywhere and a full-sun garden and Chrisjen, ever gracious, let him have it -- sure, her delicate complexion is harshened by a single afternoon of gardening and she comes out in freckles all over her arms and back, but God knows the man has little enough control over his living situation. And besides, the freckles carry a certain youthful charm. At least until they fade a bit. Then they look like liver spots.

The sunroom, however, has UV-protected glass walls facing north, east, and west. The way it juts out from the main body of the house makes it the perfect place for a greenhouse, and every morning when Chrisjen sits down to meditate she smiles a little secret smile at the conspicuous lack of any greenery or plant life whatsoever. When she sinks into the space under her conscious mind, the things she finds there are solid, smooth, and perfectly architectural.

Then she usually thinks some annoyed thoughts about how the only room in the world that is entirely her own is twenty square feet and quite literally transparent, but it’s all just part of her little internal performance. A half-joke to start the day with a touch of spite.

Bobbie doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that there’s no furniture, which is gratifying. She drops easily into a cross-legged position on the raised platform Chrisjen is reclining against, setting down the bottle and handing her a glass that’s pleasantly overfull.

“This room is yours?” she asks absently, knocking back her own drink with a wince.

Chrisjen smiles in secret pride. “What makes you think that?”

“You only come here when your hair is down.” Another pause, and this time the liquor seems to go down more easily. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Just as she’s about to respond with something studious and wise, Bobbie cracks a sudden grin. “Also, it’s dull as Olympus Mons. I think you’re a bit too refined for your own good, when no one’s around to appreciate you.”

Still grinning, she easily avoids the smack aimed at her and manages to pour another drink without spilling a drop. 

“You love that stupid mountain. What is it your soldiers say? ‘Until the rain falls hard on Olympus Mons?’”

“Eh. I’ll fight for her, but she could use a facelift, if you know what I mean. Bit blotchy.”

“Ah.” Chrisjen raises her glass towards the purpling north sky. “The only sentence you can say truthfully about a Martian geological formation, _and_ your boss.”

“Untrue. My boss’s face isn’t so bad. I’ve heard the word _saggy_ , but some people are into that.”

“I hate you. Shut up. You’re fired.”

“Love you too, ma’am.”

“That won’t get you your job back.”

“Don’t think you have much choice, actually. We’re stuck together no matter what -- the chain, remember?”

It’s good to speak it into acknowledgement. They settle into a comfortable silence, each thinking her own private thoughts as the sun finally begins dip towards the earth. 

Bobbie is wrong, Chrisjen thinks, as she often does. There is no such thing as being too refined. _Incorrectly_ refined, maybe, _sloppily_ refined, but these are both oxymorons. An Avasarala’s mind is tightly and finely packed, neatly controlled, yet dense -- heavy. It’s only right to want ease and emptiness in some small section of it.

Her father, for example, never meditated, and this is in Chrisjen’s mind his primary failing. He was the kind of man who believed in things like symbols, and preservation, and the fulfillment of potential; this made him prodigiously rigid. Powerful, yes, but rigid.

Indeed, the monolith of his presence was so solid and enduring that Chrisjen felt nothing at all when he died.

Shaking herself mentally, she circles back in her mind to the argument she’s playing out alone. Arranging one’s physical environment to uplift the mind is admirable and very Buddhist. Having a starkly minimalist meditation room is just one small discomfort to make the rest more bearable. So there.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobbie interrupts loudly. “Is this a heated floor?”

Chrisjen’s head snaps up so fast that her heavy earrings pull painfully at her earlobes. She brings her hands up to them, feeling herself pout a little, as beside her Bobbie stretches out her long body like a cat and then flops to the floor, groaning.

“You noticed.”

“Oh my god, it feels so good. No wonder you don’t have any furniture, this is like… like one big bed with windows.”

For the first time, she notices that her bodyguard never bothered to change out of the sports bra and leggings she was preparing to exercise in. With the light of the setting sun hitting her just right, she practically glows, and as she wiggles herself into more comfortable position the muscles of her stomach and shoulders ripple a little too compellingly.

“Chrisjen, honestly, _this_ is an Earther luxury I can really get behind.”

“I’m so relieved to have your seal of approval.” 

Bobbie flaps a dismissive hand at the sarcasm. “Listen, if you don’t appreciate your disgusting privilege, then I definitely will.”

She grunts inelegantly, repositioning herself with a great deal less ease until she’s lying on the floor as well. “Alright. Privilege appreciated. You can stop lecturing now.”

And it is nice, to have her hair down and her body warm and loosened. To feel, for just a moment, like a person, and like she’s safe.

It’s a stupid thought, but it distracts from the pain.

After a few more readjustments and a good deal more bourbon Bobbie goes still for a while, curled on her side with one arm pillowing her head. A stray lock of Chrisjen’s hair makes its way into the crook of her arm and she brushes it away with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Your hair smells nice,” she says casually. Leaning close, she winds some through her fingers as if she does it all the time. “It’s beautiful.”

Expecting a stab of annoyance, Chrisjen finds that the warmth at her back really is relaxing. She feels pleasantly amused. And the sight of Bobbie’s smile so close above her is… oddly comforting.

“When the UN captures a drone image of you fondling the most laboured-over haircut in the system, I’m going to tell them you can’t hold your liquor.”

“Very funny. You really can’t take a compliment, can you?”

“It may surprise you to hear that most of the compliments I receive are just a bit more polished than, ‘Your hair smells good.’”

“Well, a lot of people lie to you.” She flops back down, closer this time. “That’s why you keep me around, isn’t it? Everyone else wants something from you.”

“And you don’t?”

“I want you to do your job and not get killed. I think we both want that.”

“Perhaps.”

After a while Bobbie props herself up, as if in afterthought, and reaches fully over Chrisjen to grab the bourbon bottle. “‘Scuse me,” she mumbles without a hint of embarrassment.

She blinks, taken aback by the heat rising in her cheeks. Spirits tend to do that to her. “If you wanted my face in your cleavage, Draper, you had but to ask.”

“Sorry.” There doesn’t seem to be much apology in her voice as she draws back, lifting the bottle to her lips. “Big body. Guess I’m used to being in people’s way.”

“Hmph.” It’s an indelicate noise. Though appropriate. A lot of the sounds she makes around Bobbie are.

Chrisjen would be happy to sit in this realization for a silent moment, but Bobbie, ever the sensitive soul, barrels through her pensive bubble.

“Ma’am, can I ask you something?”

 _Breath comes from the cold earth, through the soles of your feet, your stomach. Pull it up into the chest, into the head, hold it there -- and let it trickle out._ She lets Bobbie hear her breathing and make of it what she will. “Must you? We’re far too comfortable with each other, already.”

“I did see pretty far up your skirt earlier.” 

“Yes, and I let you. Now ask me before the afterglow wears off.”

It was meant to make her laugh, but Bobbie doesn’t quite seem to be listening. Instead, she offers the bottle and only begins to speak when Chrisjen takes a sip.

“Why didn’t you send me back to Mars?”

She’s been expecting the question, but suddenly her answer seems… plastic. “You’re more useful to me here.”

“Not really, though. It doesn’t look good for your case, protecting a Martian traitor.”

“Perhaps not.” She lets herself pout a bit at the ceiling. “But I do need a reliable aide. Are you planning on betraying me?”

“I could,” she says, too earnestly. “I mean, strategically, a lot would be forgiven if I went home with some of the information I have on you.”

“You’re right.”

“It would make you look… bad.”

“Mm-hm.”

“So?”

Chrisjen takes another yoga breath, and two more very big sips of bourbon. “I,” she begins, “am a greedy, cutthroat, power-hungry, narcissistic cunt.”

“This is true.” Bobbie nods sagely.

“Shut up. Just because I call myself a spoiled brat doesn’t mean you’re allowed to think it.”

“Your words, not mine.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I do what I want, Bobbie. You’re here because I want you to be.” She feels herself scowling. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Oh.” Her Martian is quiet for a bit, broad face scrunched in thought. “Ooh. You mean we’re friends.”

Despite herself she cringes. “What I mean is that I --”

“Oh my god. Am I your _only_ friend?” Bobbie rolls over and raises herself on her forearms, hovering inches away from Chrisjen’s bare shoulder with a brilliant smile. “Am I your _best_ friend?”

“I take it back.”

“You trust me,” she continues wonderingly. “I understand you, and you understand me, so you trust me. Ha. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

Chrisjen closes her eyes and brings her hands to her face, groaning. “I don’t trust you, I have an inappropriate interest in your young, supple body. Leave me alone.”

“It can be both. You really wouldn’t have let me treat your burns if I were anyone else, would you? Oh my god, we’re literally sharing the same bottle. You’re not wearing a bra. How many people have seen UN Undersecretary Chrisjen Avasarala drink liquor from the bottle with her tits out? Sorry, ma’am. Breasts. No, that sounds worse.”

With some effort she shifts positions to sit up against the platform, crossing her legs and elongating her spine until her posture is offendedly perfect. Her burn is in agony at the movement, but the effect is more important. “You’re drunk.” 

“I am stone cold sober, and so are you. We’re two friends sharing a drink, on the floor, in our house clothes, and you’re getting skittish because I called you on all your flirting. Give me a hug.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Roberta Draper, I have never in my life been more --”

Before she can finish protesting there are two warm, hard arms encircling her torso. Bobbie rests her chin on the top of Chrisjen’s head and, with her ear pressed against the former’s chest, she can hear the steady unbothered interval of her heartbeat.

“We’re troopers, yeah?” she says softly against dark hair. “It’s okay to care. It makes us stronger.”

She’s wrong, of course. Caring does not make Chrisjen stronger. An Avasarala’s mind is cold and effective, delicately arranged, and letting in things like caring and skin contact and bright warm heartbeats can throw the fine structure into chaos.

It would have been important, then, for Bobbie to understand in that moment that it had taken hard, conscious work for Chrisjen to let even her children wrap their clingy arms around her. It was only by the time her grandchildren were born that her skin no longer cringed away from unexpected contact -- had she understood that, Bobbie might not have been so foolish as to casually wrap her arms around the most powerful woman in the solar system.

Instead, with all the blind ease of a loved child, she’s squeezing that powerful woman in an embrace tight enough to bring back the dead. Nestled into the curves of this sunset-bathed body, Chrisjen finds it easiest to think that bringing back the dead is exactly what Bobbie is doing.

“Oh, Bobbie,” she croons, trying and failing to free her arms enough to return the embrace. Instead she strokes whatever skin she can find and ignores the pang in her thighs. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” comes the half-hummed answer. “Not right now.”

And neither is Chrisjen, to tell the truth. 

Though she almost wishes she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks ever so much for reading!
> 
> Every time I see that someone's left a comment here I swear I wiggle in excitement... it means so much to me that you all enjoy my work. Since Chapter 10 feels like a momentous occasion, **let's make some introductions in the comments**? I want to know who to thank!
> 
> If you're comfortable, **comment with: your name/something I can call you by; what drew you to The Expanse and your favourite parts of the fandom; and special bonus question, what you'd like to see more of in Six O'Clock Bird!** I went first -- can't wait to meet you <3


	11. Choke-Weed

Usually, when she’s asleep on Earth, Bobbie has a lingering sense of agoraphobia that keeps her alert through the night. It’s like animals, she reasons, or soldiers. Two things that she kind of is and kind of isn’t, depending on who you ask.

Now, though, she’s dreaming of a dark curtain that smells of sweet smoke, and she can’t breathe. It’s a welcome relief.

_Bobbie._

There’s a pressure at her shoulder, pulling her out of unconsciousness.

“Earth to Bobbie. Wake up.”

“Mmph.”

“Don’t make me climb in there with you.”

This seems like a strange thing for a dream to say and she opens her eyes, slowly at first, then all at once. For a moment there’s nothing but pressing darkness, and then movement as something is swept back from over her face. “About fucking time,” says the shadow directly above her, and when Bobbie blindly tries to get up she crashes directly into Chrisjen’s chest.

“Oh for -- we don’t have _time_ for that, Bobbie.” Blowing a strand of hair out of her face Chrisjen tugs at the neckline of her robe, defensively. “Move over. Look at this.”

“Ma’am? What --”

Kneeling on the bed beside her, holding a dimly lit terminal in one hand, Chrisjen reaches over to the bedside table and holds out a mug. Eyes still adjusting to the darkness, Bobbie can only just make out the steam rising from it. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past three, so you’ll want this. Move _over._ ”

Still bemused she does so, sitting up properly as she comes to her senses. Something warm is placed in her hands and the incense smell that she awoke to is replaced by that of strong black coffee. The standing lamp at her right flickers on, its glow mercifully gentle.

Somewhat less merciful is her employer’s total -- well -- mercilessness. “Do you need another moment, or are you ready to do your goddamn job?” she asks pleasantly, settling against the headboard. 

“I am,” Bobbie says, and then takes a long time to continue the sentence. “Confused.” She blinks. “Can we take this from the top, please?”

Chrisjen huffs, but sets down the terminal. “The communications we were waiting for have come through,” she enunciates carefully. It’s a little patronizing, but then that’s nothing new. “We’ve identified our rogue element, and now we need to act. Will you help me or not?”

The question is so earnest that Bobbie feels herself warming up despite herself. “Of course.” Always.

She nods, already frowning at her terminal again. There’s a red indentation on her cheek, shaped like the big dangly earrings that she couldn’t possibly have slept in. Could she?

For a brief moment, Bobbie is so full of affection that she’s barely even grumpy.

“Drink your coffee,” her employer says absently, still looking at the screen, “or I’ll be hurt. Did you sleep well?”

“It’s funny, there’s something in this house that just won’t let me sleep.”

“Oh? What --” She’s so distracted that it actually takes her a moment before she looks up with an exhausted sigh. “You’re killing me. You’re killing your Earther.”

Bobbie sips at her coffee innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” It’s ten times stronger than she’s used to, stiff enough to stand a spoon in, but tempered with a curious blend of added spices -- it’s good, in a weirdly overwhelming way.

“You’re lucky you look so good in boxer shorts. Read this.”

Obediently she sets her mug down and takes up the offered terminal, rubbing the last of the sand out of her eyes. She has a feeling she won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

When she lays eyes on the intelligence report, though, she briefly entertains the idea that she’s still dreaming. “ _Reverend_ Doctor?”

Chrisjen nods solemnly. “Keep going.”

Bobbie scrolls down. There’s a crisp image of a glowy-looking blonde woman with soft, animated eyes -- nothing like the overly bland or overly sharp faces she’s come to expect of UN politicals. “ _Her?_ ”

“Keep going.”

She does as she’s told, skimming the file with increasing confusion. “And you think this is why he reached out to you.”

“I know it.”

“Right. I forgot you know everything.”

To her surprise, Chrisjen doesn’t respond in kind, instead massaging her temples with what looks like bruising force. Her eyes are closed in a deep frown.

“Hey.” Reaching out tentatively Bobbie takes one of her wrists. “Hey. Did you sleep at all?”

Chrisjen tugs her hand away, sharply, and meets her eyes with a strange look of betrayal. “I’m _fine_ , Draper. Let’s get to work,” she snaps. 

She doesn’t have it in her to protest, stunned for a moment by the sudden withdrawal. “Right. Okay.”

The frown seems to soften a little at that, but then she’s turning to climb off the bed. “We have another two hours before sunrise,” she instructs briskly. “How soon can you be dressed?”

“I’m ex-military, remember?”

A short laugh. “So am I.”

“Touché.” Throwing off the covers, Bobbie grabs her coffee and downs it quickly as she stands. “I’ll be yours in five.”

Once she falls into the old habits it’s a matter of muscle memory to clean up, pull on some clothes, and twist her hair into a tight bun. Early mornings aren’t exactly her favourite, but she’ll be damned if she isn’t good at them. 

This does give her a second to think, though, and as she hurries to clean her teeth a scowl begins to form. Yesterday’s accident is still on her mind, despite the brief distraction of drinks and conversation -- and… other things. Things she isn’t prepared to confront at this hour. 

The fact remains, though, that she’ll have to bring it up sooner or later. And Chrisjen is already on edge, if this rude wakeup is anything to go by.

Fantastic.

With a last sympathetic grimace into her reflection she rinses her mouth and pops her head out into the hallway. “Ma’am?”

“Pipe the fuck down, Draper.”

She sticks her tongue out but follows the voice into the master bedroom, where Chrisjen is frowning at a swath of deep red fabric laid out on the bed. 

“Aren’t we debriefing?” she asks gently, when the woman says nothing for a while.

There’s a jangle of silver bracelets as Chrisjen flaps a dismissive hand at her, chewing her bottom lip in reflection. “Change of plans,” she says. “I need a new outfit.”

“Are you sure that’s the best --”

Her question peters off as two cold hands are laid just under her ribcage, demanding attention.

“Bobbie. My darling girl.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I’m Chrisjen motherfucking Avasarala.” The dark eyes are wide and serious. “Yes, I’m goddamn sure.”

And, well. There’s no arguing with that.

At Bobbie’s salute she gives a terse nod, sighing a little. “Come. We can talk while you do my hair.” As if to demonstrate she lifts its mass off her neck for a moment, twisting her fingers through the thick locks. “It’s going to be a while.”

The walk-in closet hasn’t changed much since she last saw it, what feels like ages ago now. On the vanity a neat arrangement is already spread out, hairbrush and two matching combs set in perfect alignment. Chrisjen drops into the delicate chair with a huff.

“Brush first,” she instructs absently, touching each of the tools in turn as if to make sure they’re still there. “Here.”

Bobbie takes the proffered brush automatically, moves forward, stops. “Wouldn’t it be faster to do it yourself?”

In the mirror she can see her own uncertain form, hovering in the background as Chrisjen heaves a prodigious sigh. “So maybe I find it _soothing,_ Bobbie, _fuck._ ”

“I like how you have to bracket your squishies with swear words. Just tell me you want me to play with your hair, Chrisjen.”

“Oh, piss off.” With a long steadying breath -- Bobbie can almost hear her reciting that bit about the cold earth -- she leans back in her chair, indicates another in the corner. “Sit. We have work to do.”

So Bobbie drags the little chair over to the vanity, sits. Chrisjen shakes her hair out. Their eyes meet in the mirror, briefly. 

To cover up for a sudden flush of shyness she clears her throat and runs her fingers through the dark hair experimentally, taking it in both hands with the brush in her lap. “Is this something you do with all your aides, or am I special?” she teases. 

“Fishing for compliments doesn’t suit you, Draper.” She seems to relax a little, though, and closes her eyes for a moment as Bobbie continues her ministrations. Her hair smells, somehow, like soft unlit incense.

 _Shh._ One stroke, then another. There’s nothing to it. Bobbie combs her fingers through after every stroke of the brush and tries not to smile too obviously.

Quite soon, though, Chrisjen makes a decisive noise and squares her shoulders. “Anna Volovodov is a politician in her own way, you know,” she announces unprompted. “An effective one.”

“You mean her activism?” The silence was nice while it lasted.

“I mean her history. She has an uncanny ability to manipulate -- did you know she wrote the speech that made Esteban’s career?” Without waiting for an answer she presses on. “Whatever he wants now is irrelevant, frankly. Volovodov is pulling one set of strings, and once I get her in my corner she can help me find out who has the other set. Are you listening?”

“Mm? Yes, Chrisjen, I’m listening. You have --” gently she untangles a snarl with her fingers -- “a lot of hair.”

Does she smile at that? “I have until the light comes in -- thirteen past five, precisely -- to dress and prepare a short message to the Reverend. We get one chance to send a direct communication into parliament and Anna is the lucky recipient.”

“Because she has influence over the Sec-Gen?”

“Because she’s _new._ ” Chrisjen’s eyes almost sparkle with -- excitement? Anger? “If I play her right, I could be a dozen steps closer to office by dinnertime. If I don’t...” Her smile turns ghoulish, and she lets the sentence hang ominously.

Bobbie says nothing for a moment, not because she’s particularly cowed by the dramatics but because she keeps getting distracted. Last night there was so much going on (and, to be perfectly honest, so much alcohol in her system) that she never fully processed the unprecedented… proximity? It isn’t intimacy -- that’s not within the realm of possibility, here.

She shuts down that train of thought with an almost audible clank and runs her fingers through Chrisjen’s hair again to clear her mind. 

“So you changed your outfit to make Volovodov like you more,” Bobbie says finally, returning to her task with a diligent little cough.

“More or less. I’d go into detail, but, well -- les goûts et les couleurs, as they say.”

She leans in with a mock frown, locking eyes in the mirror. “Did you just insult me in French?”

Chrisjen actually laughs at that, wincing when the movement causes Bobbie to tug at her hair. “Far from it,” she says lightly, but nothing more.

Her hair is so straight and smooth that it really seems to untangle itself, but Bobbie gives it a few more swipes just to hear it whisper before setting down the brush. “Whatever. Consider yourself soothed.”

“Good. Now I need you to wind a small braid around like this --”

It takes a good while for Chrisjen to instruct her on the deceptively simple hairstyle she feels is necessary, teasing the heavy hair until it takes on some semblance of volume for the fishtail braid that cascades over her shoulder. They argue about this -- “no, five strands, like this --” “yes it’s called a fishtail Chrisjen --” “what the fuck do fish have to do with it --” “no that’s the name of the style --” and she can’t quite tell how much of it is affectionate. She watches their hands, long thin fingers guiding her own big ones, and files information away for later. They get along.

“I used to do my brother’s hair when it was long,” she mentions at one point. “The younger one, Benji. It’s a shame he had to cut it when he did his obligatory.”

A low hum. “I did as well, when I served. To here.” Chrisjen draws a line above her breast, grimacing like it was shorn off completely. “Never again afterwards.”

“I like your hair the way it is now.”

She smiles smugly, tucking back a stray lock. “I know.”

Bobbie doesn’t blush, exactly, but she feels the heat rise up her neck all the same. If she notices in the mirror Chrisjen makes no comment, seemingly distracted by the ever-scrolling news reports on her terminal. Then, lightly and without looking up: “You miss him terribly. Your brother.”

“With respect, ma’am, it’s too early for this.”

“Is it?” She actually turns then, cocking her head to look Bobbie in the eye. “We should talk about it. You must be very lonely if you’re considering me as a friend.”

“Oh, wow. Okay. First of all, I’m not any lonelier here than you must be.”

“I spoke to my husband not ten days ago. I have a big, strong ex-Marine to occupy my idle hours. You get, what, an empty sky and some random old rich woman? These next few days are going to be very difficult for you if you depend on me for…” she makes a face. “Emotional support.”

Of course. Chrisjen needs her functioning within optimal parameters. “I’m _fine_ , ma’am,” she bites. Her voice is a tad more bitter than she expected. “I’m a big girl.”

“That you are.”

“Listen.” Bobbie sighs, tries to soften. “When was the last time you saw your daughter? Thinking about her won’t help. Wondering why she doesn’t try harder to reach you won’t help. It’s the same principle.”

The mild distaste in Chrisjen’s face intensifies, pinching down the corners of her mouth. “That it is not,” she huffs. “My daughter doesn’t like me very much, for one.”

There’s a pause. 

“You, uh. You realize that’s a really sad argument in your defense, right?”

“It proves a point, Bobbie. I’m trying to prepare you for something unpleasant, because I _care_ about you.” She frowns, the intensity of her words making each one a sentence of its own. “Do you understand what I’m saying? This is not a gift I’m giving you.”

Bobbie places the last pin, hands lingering in Chrisjen’s hair. She does understand, actually. She thinks. Anyways when she leans to close to Chrisjen’s body she feels like she can’t breathe.

“No. It isn’t. I accept that.”

Chrisjen nods, and turns back to the mirror. The tightness in her expression is smoothed away almost instantly. “Now that that’s over --”

“You need to tell me what happened yesterday. The accident.”


	12. Oh Little Gods, Oh Their Big Teeth

In all the videos, Anna Volovodov moves with that irritating ethereality particular to a certain type of religious white woman. Even picking through the rubble of a bombing in Minsk, face streaked with soot and dust, the reverend shines with a soft innocence that seems just genuine enough to set Chrisjen’s teeth on edge. 

Actually, she’s exactly the kind of woman that Chrisjen used to enjoy taking to bed just to figure out what made them come apart. 

“Narcissists,” she proclaims without warning. “The lot of them.”

“Who, Methodists?”

Bobbie’s voice from across the room gives her a start. With a pang of emotion Chrisjen realizes that she’d done what she always does with Arjun -- shifted just enough to give him a view of what she was reading, assuming that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. This is, of course, not the case with her Martian. She tries not to think too much about her husband.

“White women, actually,” she deadpans. “I don’t know many Methodists. They’re just Christians, no? ”

She shrugs, the bulk of her shoulders making even that an event. “Beats me. We aren’t big on religion up there.”

Her hand goes to wave vaguely towards the ceiling of the sitting room, seeming to take in the entire powder blue sky. In the cool light of early morning she looks almost washed out, exhaustion etched under her eyes in a sickly grey. She’s aged, since they met.

“Careful. Mars is _that_ way.” Here Chrisjen points more or less randomly and offers up a quick prayer that she isn’t too far off. “You don’t want to be starting rumours.”

Bobbie sticks out her tongue instead of answering, which is delightful. If only she’d apply some of that irreverence elsewhere.

This pure affection lasts right up until she notices her Martian’s gaze wandering and her demeanour crystallizes. “Stop staring at my hands, Draper.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

It is a point of pride for Chrisjen that she only lied a little bit when pressed about the accident. _My hand spasms sometimes. It’s normal._ The implication there being that she would recover. _I’ll be more careful next time I cook._

Technically nothing she said was untrue, and that does help, but it’s been almost two hours since she sent the video message and Bobbie has not stopped worrying.

“Do you want another look at my thighs?” Chrisjen uncrosses her legs, voice light and sardonic. “That might cheer you up.”

Bobbie clears her throat, blushes furiously. “ ‘Mgoodthanks.”

Which… huh. That was a bit more… hmm… a bit more than she’d calculated. Maybe this is starting to be a problem.

The Arjun in her head gives her an I-told-you-so look, but the real one would never do such a thing, so Chrisjen lets it slide.

It’s another hour before she receives confirmation that the message has been delivered, a slim little tablet tucked in with the reverend’s breakfast -- these things have to be done in style. Her response comes so soon afterwards that Chrisjen’s stomach tightens in suspicion.

But then she watches it, and smiles.

“I’m going for a walk,” she announces as she rises from the low divan. There’s a touch of difficulty in the manoeuvre that wasn’t there when this furniture was commissioned, but Chrisjen’s movements betray none of it. “Will you tell the guard?”

Her Martian heaves a deep sigh and unfolds from her armchair, cracking her neck. “Yep. I bet it’s still night shift. Remind me what your timeline is?”

She blinks for a second before understanding, and Bobbie shoots her an almost exasperated look. “Sunrise,” she begins, “I record and send the message. It’s golden hour, so I look stunning.”

“Granted.”

“Seven o’clock, the message is delivered by one of my operatives. Seven fifteen, the Reverend replies --”

“She did? What did she say?”

Chrisjen laughs at that, cocks her head and beckons. “Come. Let’s walk first.”

There’s a frustrated grunt from behind her as she swans out of the room, but nothing more. Bobbie is used to this, now. Maybe she even understands it.

Their walks have tended to take the same route, through the orchard and down to the pond, that Bobbie was so enchanted by the first time. Now Chrisjen stops among the fruit trees, squeezes her companion’s arm.

“There.” She points.“Can you reach that branch?”

She can feel Bobbie’s body tensing as she looks up into the peach tree, then quickly down again. Right. Martians and their broken brains.

Instead of moving to help, she gazes lazily up at the whitening sky and tries to inflict -- vertigo. Awe. Terror. Anything like what the incomprehensible woman at her side must be feeling in this moment. 

It doesn’t work, obviously, but it does feel good to try. 

She sighs. “If I sprain something, it’s your job to carry me back to the house.” 

Untangling herself from Bobbie’s frankly delightful forearm she takes a moment to brace her bad left hand against it, hiding stiff movements with a rustle of silk. Before her Martian can say anything she kicks an old harvesting footstool into place and stretches, carefully, up towards her target. 

“What -- ma’am, it’s fine, there are lower ones --”

“This one’s better.” Six inches short. “Fuck.”

The soft laugh at her back catches her by surprise. The hand reaching easily past hers to tug down that stupid peach just makes her annoyed.

She’s about to say something snappy when she’s lifted bodily off the footstool and set down, gently, in the grass. Heat rises sharply in her cheeks and she opens her mouth to swear, but --

“You just picked me up in one arm,” she says instead. 

“Oh. Yeah, guess I did.” Bobbie’s nose is pressed against the fuzz of the peach, eyes closed in a soft smile. “You’re right, this smells amazing.”

A beat. Then: “Three more should be enough,” she answers briskly, smoothing out the wrinkled fabric of her sari. _Breath comes from the cold earth._ Fuck.

The whole way back Volovodov’s delicate frown dances around her mind as Chrisjen trails behind her Martian, watching without seeing the other woman’s bright quick movements. Perhaps it would be time to set things straight, as it were. This is just what she gets for ignoring her husband’s advice.

“-- with the rest of the day. Right?”

She turns, shaken out of her musings. “Huh?”

“Wow. You didn’t hear any of that, did you?” Bobbie accuses. She’s taken off her sweater and tied it into a makeshift bag for the peaches, baring her arms. “Is it that bad? The message?”

“No, not at all. I’m just weighing my options.” Motioning for her to come closer Chrisjen pulls out her terminal and pulls up the short video. 

Anna Volovodov isn’t facing the camera at first, frowning to the side as if in thought. When she finally looks up, her eyes are… steely. But softly intent.

“Call me,” she says after a beat.

The video cuts off.

Bobbie waits for a second as if she’s somehow expecting more. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“And? What are you going to do?”

She sighs, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth for a split second before she checks herself and flashes her most brilliant smile. “You know what I’m going to do.” Why does that sound so ominous? “You have reports to read, yes?”

If she was expecting resistance, she doesn’t meet any. Bobbie’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly, but she enters the house quietly and removes her shoes without being asked. It’s well within her rights to be worried.

Chrisjen checks her makeup in the hall mirror, smooths down her hair. It’s been about an hour since Volovodov sent her response, and she’s bound to be getting antsy -- not yet irritated, but insecure enough to be relieved when Chrisjen calls. 

A deep satisfying warmth begins to spread through her at the thought, setting her fingers drumming against the sideboard. 

She checks her hair one more time, meets her own eyes in the mirror. She can’t look too prepared, or Volovodov will think she’s being played -- which she will be, most surely. But not just yet.

The trick -- one of the tricks -- is to start the video call before she sits down. It adds a brisk kind of energy to the conversation if she’s in movement for a few moments at the beginning.

Volovodov answers almost instantly, which is only half a surprise. “Chrisjen Avasarala?” she asks immediately as Chrisjen arranges herself in a corner of the living room. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Not officially, no.” She gives a soft smile. “I am aware of your work.”

“And I yours.” Serious, clear grey eyes. Good. “What work of mine is this regarding?”

Chrisjen’s smile widens ever so slightly, delight written in the flash of her teeth. “War-ending work, I hope,” she responds. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

A little nod, delicate but determined. “Thank you for contacting me,” says the blonde smudge on her viewscreen, brows creased in sincerity. “Your message was so unexpected. Are you being treated well?”

 _Saraswati save me._ “With all due respect, Reverend Doctor, let’s cut the small talk. Our time is short, if you’ll recall.”

“Of course. I will do my best to ensure that you’re allowed to communicate as freely as possible, _especially_ with your family.” God, she’s so fucking earnest. “This is awful, what Esteban has let them do. Even after your accuser was found guilty.”

Who’s this _them,_ then? Clever, implying that this imprisonment is only tangentially his fault. “I appreciate your concern.”

From long experience she knows that the Reverend will fill a silence if she produces it now, under the guise of “not playing her games.” If one person pauses the other is supposed to speak, unless they are in confrontation, in which case the first to speak has lost somehow — but Reverend Doctor Anna Volovodov does not play these games, which means she loses on purpose. Honestly, it makes this part so much easier. 

So. Chrisjen waits, and twists one of her rings carefully just out of sight of the camera so that Volovodov will feel superior for spotting a subtle nervous fidget. 

“I’ve been reading about you,” she says finally, almost on cue after her eyes flick down to the corner of Chrisjen’s sleeve. “My security clearance doesn’t seem to be enough to find out much about you. The real you, I mean, not the public figure.”

What eye-rolling nonsense. “I know how much you value personal relationships, Reverend Doctor. Reaching out like this is my way of — asking you to be friends.” She smiles at this last part, letting only a little of the exhaustion she feels every waking minute leech into her expression.

“You need my help.”

“I do.”

It is said without hesitation, and Chrisjen even inserts a bit of relief into her affect as she exhales. This has to be the taking-off of the gloves.

Mercifully, the reverend seems to recognize that. “Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll consider it. But you have to understand that I cannot -- _will_ not make any promises.”

Even in her cynicism Volovodov is full of nothing but open innocence. Every curve of her face, every light touch of colour in her radiates Good Will -- this is of course what makes her so effective as a preacher, and what makes Chrisjen want to eat her alive. She is aware of her habit for conflating irritation and lust (has even encouraged it, when one or the other do not serve the situation), but this is really too much.

If it were normal times, Chrisjen can’t help but think this would be resolved right there in the overnight diplomatic quarters of the UN. One way or another.

 _Cold times,_ she reminds herself, and gives a resigned little smile. “Of course. I understand perfectly.”

Volovodov is letting her eyes wander now, finally comfortable with her upper hand. In the background Chrisjen can make out the familiar neutral-chic design of the UN guest spaces, blues and whites and beiges. The reverend will open with something personal now, and she’ll be angling for information but really she’ll be curious -- she has to be, bored as she must feel. Helpless as she must feel. 

“Are you religious?” Volovodov asks, truly on cue this time. “In your personal life, I mean.”

She’s gesturing towards the bronze Buddha behind Chrisjen, one of her favourites. She moved him from the window earlier to make sure he made at least a sliver of an appearance on the call.

“Is that entirely relevant, Reverend?”

“Always.” Again that impossible sincerity. “It says a lot about a person, what and how they choose to worship. I’ve made it my life’s work to understand that.”

“That’s very admirable of you.”

“Not really.”

They stare at each other for a moment. There’s a glint of something in the reverend’s eyes -- humour or irritation.

“I do not pretend to reach for Nirvana,” Chrisjen says finally, drawing the sentence out. “But I do worship. It’s important to gain some perspective from time to time, wouldn’t you say, Reverend?”

A guarded look. “I suppose you should call me Anna,” says the reverend.

Which is a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! I've missed you. How've you been?
> 
> As you can see I've rather fallen off the shuttle, but don't you worry. Updates will be slowly starting again this winter, if all goes well. Winter and spring are the sci-fi seasons after all! (Summer and autumn being intended for magic realism.) Hope you enjoyed this little update, and this new yet familiar face :o)


	13. Dos Palabras

Bobbie is thinking about _the chain_. The thing about _the chain_ , she is thinking, is that it tugs.

From the kitchen doorway -- hidden, though she doesn’t think of it that way, from the living room -- she can more or less make out Chrisjen’s conversation with the reverend; they seem to be getting along, all things considered. Still, she can’t help but notice the sharp edges of Chrisjen’s laugh.

“What the men of the United Nations are refusing to acknowledge,” she’s saying now, nearly drawling with comfortable authority, “is that peace and stability are mutually exclusive in our current situation. This government _requires_ conflict -- it could be said that any government does. Personally, I can work with either.”

The reverend says something sweet but indistinct. Chrisjen delivers another short sharp laugh, and Bobbie feels it in her upper arms. 

She pulls out her hand terminal without thinking, checks the time and her schedule before navigating through the security links that allow her to observe -- nebulously -- the outside world. 

Earlier, helping Chrisjen in the orchard, she nearly forgot there was one. 

It might be troubling if she bothered to think about that much.

In any case, there’s nothing Bobbie has access to that gives her any kind of real insight. Which is, of course, intentional. Really her only reliable information comes from Chrisjen’s contacts, the loosely-linked group of officials and comms directors who circumvent the restrictions of her house arrest -- a concept so far from Bobbie’s mind now that she raises her eyebrows at the thought.

But the trappings of _the chain_ are such that, instead of lamenting her own loss of freedom or the limits of Earth journalism, Bobbie just sighs and puts in a discreet connection request to the comms station in the city. It would take her eight hours of hard running — _in_ her power armour — to get there herself, but her request is processed almost instantly. 

If she had her armour here, Bobbie thinks idly, she wouldn’t have any trouble with the sky. Or with homesickness. 

The request bounces back to her terminal then and Bobbie opens it impatiently. Tagged and filed, and someone will be available shortly. As if there isn’t an officeful of people already staring at it, wondering what she’s asking for. 

“—offend the Church, but what can you expect?” Chrisjen says in the other room, perfectly sincere. She can do that when she wants to, sincerity. It makes Bobbie a little angry for some reason. 

To get to the stairs and then the sitting room — parlour? Family room, that’s it, Jesus with these meaningless names — she’ll need to pass within Chrisjen’s line of sight, more or less. Less because she’s eighty percent sure the woman is myopic, more because she also seems to be capable of extrasensory perception. Actually, Bobbie understands that; it’s one of the few things good politicians and good soldiers have in common. Constant and probing awareness of the people around you. 

So: exaggerated tiptoeing from kitchen to front hall, in order to gain target’s attention with obvious caution. Then a brief look over the shoulder when reaching stairwell, then quick light steps all the way up and to the back of the house. Easy. 

_It is possible,_ Bobbie thinks at the top of the stairs, _that I over-thought this._ But she only does that when she’s nervous, so.

The callback comes just as she’s settling into a chair by the big window. 

“Good morning, Ms. Draper,” chimes the feed in a familiar chipper voice. Sunita Matthews looks like she only just got to work, tugging off a silky red scarf as she smiles toothily. “I sure hope you’re having a _fantastic_ day!”

“Jesus, Matthews,” Bobbie laughs. “Are you always like this?”

“It adds a little irony to a _very_ serious job. Who can I prevent you from connecting to this fine morning?”

Sunita is her favourite of all the UN contacts she’s dealt with, so Bobbie lets herself loosen the lie a bit. “Listen, I actually need a favour,” she says sheepishly. “Can you connect me to that first medic on the old lady’s file? I completely blanked on the name.”

“Oh, the neurologist? Yeah, he’s authorized. You just sit tight while I make sure everything’s a-okay.”

“A little of that goes a long way, Matthews.”

“So does the reach of UN Official Communications! Uniting nations since two thousand fifty six!” With a few taps to her keyboard she looks back up and frowns. “Alright, it looks like you already denied a few connections from Dr. Emin. Quite a few, actually!”

 _Denied?_ “Yeah, you know how stubborn she can be. I said I’d try to smooth things over.”

“Good luck! Unfortunately you know I can’t get you anything direct until we’ve authenticated everything and it’s _much_ too early in the day for that. I’ll send you a requisition form.”

“Can we nix that, actually? I just need to send a short message. The doc can deal with all of the paperwork for an incoming call later, right?”

“Well…” Matthews bites her lip, brow furrowing. “A short message? You just want him to call you back?”

“On my personal terminal, not the house line. Don’t want Madam Grumpypants to hang up on him again.”

“That’s a whole other shuttlepad, Draper, but I like you, so I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll throw in a promise not to tell anyone what you just called our government leader, too.”

“Yeah, thanks. That would definitely be the worst offense the UN suspects me of.”

A laugh, and then there’s a flurry of movement at the bottom of the screen as Matthews types something, switches monitors, types some more.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” she says finally, eyes still on the second display. “If you can fit your message into a contact description, I’ll switch out the house line for yours on Dr. Emin’s authorization. He’ll get notified of the change and be shown your contact information with it. How does that sound?”

“Matthews, I owe you lunch. No, dinner. _And_ drinks.”

“A lot of suspected criminals say that!”

Bobbie laughs obligingly, already composing her request. “Can I give you the message to insert right now? Four words.”

“No time like the present.”

She types it out and sends it, watching Sunita’s face. Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes flicker up to the camera for a split second before she taps it in. 

“Alright!” she says brightly after a moment, turning her attention fully back to Bobbie. “I’ve made the switch. Anything else I can do to make sure your day goes swimmingly?”

“You already saved me a lot of trouble, Matthews. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Draper! Anytime, day or night. Literally. We’re monitoring you round the clock.”

When she drops the connection Bobbie sits back, heavily, and lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. 

Dr. Emin. A neurologist. She can work with that. 

It’s also worth noting that Sunita didn’t seem to have a problem giving her information from Chrisjen’s medical file. Is she fully authorized, then? And if she is, why hasn’t anyone told her?

 _Am I really coming up with conspiracy theories in my own home?_ she asks herself jokingly. Then pales. _Am I really calling this my home?_

Bobbie stills herself, takes two quick breaths, and firmly sets the thought aside.

She’s been awake for seven hours, and it’s only just past ten. She hasn’t eaten anything but coffee and fruit -- Chrisjen, as far as Bobbie knows, has had neither. So. That narrows down her priorities to something a little more manageable.

On the way down the stairs she remembers to unclench her jaw, then her fists. 

“—since then,” Chrisjen is saying as she reaches the ground floor, still weaving her web in the corner of the living room. “Do you believe him?”

The reverend doesn’t reply for what seems like a very long time. 

And then she does. 

Bobbie is thinking about _the chain,_ but she still makes flowcharts in her head like she was taught. The thing about _the chain,_ she is thinking, is that it only works to solve problems when there are two people alone in a house for many weeks. 

She is still learning to work with political strength instead of military, but her flowcharts are detailed and clear. She maps probabilities, allegiances, priorities. She wonders at the banality that extrasolar life forms have become. 

She thinks about her only friend, and worries. 

But also, and somehow more importantly, Bobbie is cooking breakfast. And she thinks it will be very good. 

It isn’t so much a noise as it is a physical awareness that alerts her to Chrisjen’s presence in the doorway. 

“How did it go?”

A shrug. “Here’s something,” Chrisjen says, and her voice is strangely deliberate. “There’s a story. About a woman who sells words.”

Bobbie pushes the tofu around in its pan. She can feel the woman at her back moving closer to settle at the table, rustling and jingling gently. 

“Let me guess. The woman is a preacher.”

“No, no. Neither a preacher nor lawyer nor politician. Just a seller of words, a very good one, but destitute. In time her work becomes known to a warmonger of that country — this is an old story, from a country that used to be full of violent uprisings. Anyways. This warmonger leads a group of rebels against the government, or something, very dark and charismatic. You know the type.”

“Sure.”

“The warmonger, he sends his lieutenant to fetch the woman and bring her by force to his camp. He wants her to write a speech for him. He… needs the people to love him. He’s tired of violence…”

Chrisjen doesn’t seem to notice that she’s trailed off there. That’s worrying. 

“Breakfast,” Bobbie interjects, placing two bowls on the table. 

A gentle wave of the hand. “No, thank you.”

“Wasn’t a question.”

Their eyes meet. Chrisjen takes the bowl. 

“So the woman, Belisa,” she continues slowly, “is brought to this encampment. And she’s treated very badly. But when she meets the warmonger — they call him the colonel — she… understands him. _Sees_ him. She writes something for him that brings tears of passion to the eyes of even the most weathered rebels in that camp.”

“Let me guess, a love letter?”

“A campaign speech, Bobbie, keep up.”

“Right.”

“A beautiful campaign speech. The very best. But the real point of the story is — when he pays her, and is about to send her on her way, Belisa gives the colonel a gift. Two words, for his ears alone, that are supposed to drive away melancholy.” Chrisjen pauses here and looks down at her bowl, frowning. “I’m really not hungry, Bobbie.”

“I refuse to believe that you need to be hungry to eat crispy tofu and rice. Look, I even put crushed almonds in. Like you showed me.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at her mouth. A wry smile, but still. “You know, usually when I finish a meeting like that it’s the first step of a very long work day. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to wait for a callback.”

“Good. It’ll keep you humble,” Bobbie says.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Eat your breakfast.”

She picks at it for a moment, then grins. “I do appreciate having a little housewife around the place,” Chrisjen says with a toss of the shoulders. 

Before Bobbie can fully grasp that she’s talking again. “But the story — I’m almost done. Belisa shares these two secret words and takes her leave. It’s many months before she hears of the colonel again, first on the campaign trail, then on a victory tour. But what she doesn’t know is that, since he heard her words, the colonel has fallen terribly ill.  
So ill that eventually one of his soldiers scours the land to find her again and bring her back, thinking she’s cursed him.”

“And?”

“And she goes.”

“...And?”

“She takes the colonel’s hand.”

Bobbie waits a moment, then another. Across the table Chrisjen takes a tentative bite of rice.

“I’m on the edge of my seat here, Chrisjen,” she blurts a second later, a little too loud. Feeling a blush come on she shoves her fork into her mouth and talks around the tofu. “What then?”

She looks up, blinking. “Nothing. She takes his hand. That’s the end of the story.” 

“But what — what about the words? Why was he sick? Did she cure him?”

“You don’t read much, do you?”

“Come on, Chrisjen. That can’t be all there is.”

“I’d say I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really don’t care,” she shrugs. “What more do you want? Anyways, the story isn’t about the wordsmith, it’s about the woman who makes her up. Eva. From the book.” She taps her terminal with one finger as if to demonstrate. “You might like it.”

“I’m still confused.”

“It keeps you humble,” Chrisjen retorts, and Bobbie has to laugh. 

Later, though, once the dishes have been tossed into the processor and they’ve moved into the sun-bright living room, she comes back to it. There are some things that Bobbie’s mind refuses to let go of. 

“So — the word seller, though.”

“Oh my god, Bobbie.”

“No, hear me out. Was that about the reverend? Or was it about you? Was the colonel the Sec-Gen?”

With a great heaving sigh Chrisjen sits back into the couch. Spreads her skirts. “It isn’t _about_ anything, Bobbie. I was just… tired.”

After a silence, she corrects herself. “Maybe I’m scared.”

And Bobbie, processing that, doesn’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Thinks again on the four words she sent to the doctor, and how four is so much more than two. 

Four words to drive off melancholy, or to summon worry. 

_She says she’s fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky chapter thirteen is dedicated to my favourite green and growing storyteller. You know who you are.
> 
> Chrisjen is, of course, referencing _Dos Palabras_ or "Two Words" from Isabel Allende's _Stories of Eva Luna_! I highly recommend it if you're not yet familiar with her work, especially if you read Spanish (but the trade translation is also excellent) <3
> 
> MOST IMPORTANTLY, GO LISTEN TO SPINIFEX'S PODFIC OF THIS VERY STORY. IF YOU THOUGHT YOU LIKED IT ALREADY, SHE WILL BLOW YOUR WHOLE MIND STRAIGHT OUT I PROMMY! PLS LEAVE HER KUDOS SHE IS MY HEART N SOUL
> 
> Phew! Long note. As always, thanks for reading, much love. Let me know what you think!


	14. What Blood Disgusts You Most? What Life?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small content warning for graphic descriptions of blood (nonviolent) and mentions of vomiting. It's fine everyone's fine we're all good :o)

The stylus scratches pleasantly against her paperlike writing tablet, accenting each curve with a little hiss. Chrisjen wonders if it was engineered that way; it must have been. It’s far too satisfying to be accidental.

“E-zhu-ndhir-gal,” she enounces quietly. “E-zhu-gir-ir-gal. E-zhu-vir-gal. Alright, fuck, I’m awake.” At the end of the line she sets down her stylus and reads over what she wrote, or tries to. The curling letters that she understood not two seconds ago glimmer with meaning for a moment, then dissolve into a loopy mess. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Having fun?” asks her Martian with infuriating good humour. She’s been hovering for days now, draping that body of hers over whatever piece of furniture is nearest to Chrisjen and pretending that she just happened to be doing her reading there. Even after moving to the upstairs sitting room, where usually no work is allowed.

With a careful flick she rewrites the letter _zhu,_ then another, then another, etching its shape into her brain. “I’m positively giddy. Can’t you tell?”

“You look like you could use a fresh cup of tea.”

She can’t help but smile at that. “Are you offering?”

“Sure.” With a rustle she rises from the armchair and stretches. “Black?”

Setting down the tablet Chrisjen cocks her head to the side and considers. “I don’t trust you with green tea,” she says finally. “You always let the water boil.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s tea.”

“Black will do, thank you.” 

It is a point of considerable pride in Chrisjen’s life that, of all the Martian Marines to convert, she stole their biggest and best-looking one. Bobbie’s cracking all her joints, raising her hands up above her head so that her undershirt slips up, and she looks so… warm. Comfortable. In a sudden rush of domestic tenderness Chrisjen tilts her head up and smiles at _her Martian_ with a slow blink. 

She’s practically about to reach up for -- an embrace? -- when she realizes what she’s doing and recoils with a mortified cough. 

“Chrisjen? You good?”

“I’m very good.” _Ezhundhirgal, ezhugirirgal, ezhuvirgal. You awoke, you awaken, you will awaken._ “Hot flash,” she says airily, waving one hand.

Bobbie snorts. “No more caffeine. I’ll make you herbal.”

“Huh. You’re my keeper, now?”

“Yes. I have decided to keep your heart from bursting.”

“And with a word, you fail. Really, I’m touched.” Brushing aside a lock of hair -- her updos have been getting less and less elaborate lately -- she settles deeper into the couch and takes up the tablet and stylus with a pout. “How am I supposed to refresh my Tamil on fucking, mint linden? I need substance. I need body.”

Bobbie’s voice is muffled. “I’ve already left the room.”

When did that happen? “I don’t care.”

“I’m going down the stairs now.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I can’t hear you…”

Despite herself, Chrisjen laughs. _Suuriyan,_ she remembers suddenly, and then writes it down with perfect confidence. _Sun._

Well. At least she knows that much.

With her good right hand she plumps a decorative pillow and brings her legs up, leaning back against the arm of the loveseat. Sniffs. Fancy the new Undersecretary-General of the UN, languishing in her sitting room, doing Dravidian grammar exercises during a lukewarm war because the government is too much of a coward to let her be of any use.

Serves them right.

Flipping the bird mentally at whatever past decision made this room a no-work zone she takes out her hand terminal, checking for updates. There have been protests for and against her, both as a policy-maker and as a person. Sorrento-Gillis is quickly losing his grip and the government is tearing itself apart. Her contacts on every level of office say more or less the same thing: _this shit is fucked up, ma’am._

Which is just what you get for removing the competent woman, she thinks with a smug little smile.

Many, many people are dying. Many more will die, or be displaced, or thrown into chaos because of Chrisjen’s absence. Her return might be even worse -- the trauma of breaking a bone to let it heal properly again.

None of this is what scares her. For the first time in what feels like years, Chrisjen is -- _painfully_ \-- and here she blanks for a moment. Apprehensive?

 _Excited._ That’s the word. She’s excited.

The satisfaction settles against her stomach like a warm, happy child. This is going to be fun.

Until then, though -- vocabulary. There’s an excellent Tamil-French dictionary somewhere in her library, she’s sure of it, published by a particular friend of hers from way back when. Well, she was still in language courses, so very way back. The dictionary is still current, though, and she pulls up a search on her terminal. Sniffs. Frowns, wiping her nose lightly.

She’s just found the right edition when she notices the streak of bright red on her knuckles.

“Of course.” It isn’t even surprising or worrying anymore, just… inconvenient. When she tilts her head back to pinch her nose the rush of blood in the back of her throat feels rather like drowning.

One-handed it’s a little difficult to leverage herself off the deep couch -- she could have sworn that it was easier to get out of this set when they bought it -- but she unfolds her legs and shakes out her skirt and makes it to the bathroom without too much gore.

Over the sink she just bends over and washes her hands carefully, letting the blood drip down the drain. At least she manages to only do this when Bobbie is in another room, or else the whole "I’m recovering" thing would fall apart just a little more.

The practical thing to do, she thinks, would be to plug up her nose somehow. A handkerchief. But she’s too fond of all the ones she has on hand and besides that would look ridiculous, so instead Chrisjen just pins up her hair and waits. 

The Chrisjen in the mirror is rather captivating, actually. She has an ancient-world kind of intensity. 

Back when she was allowed to leave the house, there was an opera season when she’d attended _Medea_ four nights in a row -- they used real blood in the final scene, lots of it. The lead alto had cut open their dress and practically bathed in it as it coated their bare chest and neck and hands. It was glorious. 

(She’d sent a bouquet of bleeding hearts to the dressing room, and Kiva -- the singer -- sent a lipstick-kissed note back. And then they’d had dinner, and then --)

In the middle of her reverie she discovers that it is, in fact, an incredibly uncomfortable long-term makeup look, and pauses to clean herself up. With a disgusting slithering feeling this dislodges a blood clot that plops into her hand, filling her palm, and she shudders. Considerably less sexy.

There’s a renewed rush of warmth after the clot and Chrisjen tips over again, splattering the black stone of the sink with bright, opaque drops. It’s disgusting, but also strangely relieving. Like all that blood was just building pressure in the back of her head.

_Ezhundhirgal, ezhugirirgal, ezhuvirgal. You awoke, you awaken, you will awaken. Ezhundhen ezhugiren ezhuven: I awoke, I awaken, I will awaken. Ezhundhom ezhugirom ezhuvom…_

Kiva’s retired now. They’re thirteen years younger than Chrisjen, and they’re _retired_. Chrisjen can’t imagine what that must be like.

_Ezhunden ezugiren ezhuven._

All the blood she’s swallowing has started to make her rather queasy. 

Thinking of Kiva Emin makes her think briefly of little Avi, one of the few people allowed to call her these days, and how many times she’s ignored his connection requests. He would probably have something to say about this bleeding -- he has something to say about most things. And he isn’t little anymore, though Chrisjen doesn’t think she can ever take him seriously. He hates that.

“Focus,” she says aloud, suppressing a cough. “Stop bleeding. Go back to your grammar.”

Stern eyes in the mirror. “Also, end the interplanetary war, find a way to call up that thing on Venus, and make it listen to you. Fucking easy. Then you can probably figure out some way to apologize to your goddamn husband while you’re at it.”

Right. 

Slowly, carefully, Chrisjen reaches up to the little shelf above her head and feels around for the decorative vase there. It’s blown glass, or looks like it, milky black to match the sink and tub. She wraps her hand around its smooth curves and brings it down to her face so that -- yes, so that she can bleed into it. Okay. That works.

With a final sigh she lets her shoulders slump and goes to sit in the bathtub. Because she’s tired, and her green-blue silks look lovely against the black marble.

Bobbie comes up soon after that, and Chrisjen can hear her pausing ever so briefly at the bathroom door before she moves on.

 _Please help me_ , she practices in her head. But doesn’t open her mouth.

Chrisjen is becoming reacquainted with fear, these days. Despite her excitement. 

It’s probably about time.

In an attempt to dispel the gruesome thought Chrisjen checks her incoming data again and is pleased to discover that Anna Volovodov has decided to help her. This information, of course, isn’t coming from the Reverend herself -- she may not even realize that she’s made the decision yet -- but apparently she advocates even for the people she doesn’t realize she respects. There are plans in motion, the informants say, to allow Chrisjen more communicative freedom. Soon she will be able to speak to her husband again. To her daughter.

Maybe even her grandchildren.

And, when she suddenly feels like she’s been punched in the stomach, Chrisjen discovers that this might not be a good thing.

_Ezhundhirgal, ezhugirirgal, ezhuvirgal. You awoke and you made me sick. Medea awoke to find her husband gone and you know what she did then._

That doesn’t seem to make her discomfort any worse, though, so surely the children aren’t in danger. Chrisjen simply won’t allow it. 

Of course in the opera, before she kills them, Medea uses her children to deliver poisoned wedding gifts --

Chrisjen barely makes it to the toilet before she’s emptying the contents of her stomach into it.

The knock at the door comes almost immediately, and her Martian’s worried voice a moment later saying something along the lines of Oh-my-god-are-you-alright, but Chrisjen’s mind is already weeks ahead. 

It’s a good plan. It makes her sick, but it’s a good plan.

“I’m fine,” she calls hoarsely as an afterthought, and looks up to find her Martian already kneeling next to her with a damp cloth. “Oh. Thank you.”

Where she expected to find panic or worry, Bobbie’s face comes up curiously tight and blank. 

“I got a nosebleed,” Chrisjen says. “It’s rather disgusting.”

“Enough to make you puke.”

“Well, I haven’t been eating much, I suppose. That’s mostly tea.” She waves at the toilet with one unsteady hand, takes the proffered cloth. “And gin.”

“Okay.” She sighs, sitting down heavily. “I just… I need you to take care of yourself, alright? Or let me take care of you. It has to be one or the other.”

“I’m --”

“The only person who can fix this crock of shit that the solar system has become! The _only_ one. You know that, right? I mean you say it a lot, and you certainly _act_ like it, but you still don’t seem to understand that you are the single most important person on this godforsaken planet.”

Her eyes are so earnest when she gets worked up like this, it makes Chrisjen want to hug her. 

Stiffly, slowly, she shifts to sit down properly on the heated floor. Reaches up to cycle the toilet, then pours in the vase of blood she’s still clutching and cycles it again. Bobbie makes a face, but says nothing.

“I was just thinking of an opera I used to see often,” Chrisjen starts, to ease the moment. “About blood. The opera, I mean. They used real --”

“Due respect, I don’t think this is a good time for another story.” With a half-smile Bobbie reaches out and takes her numb left hand. “You’re still puke-y. And we’re on a bathroom floor.”

“What do you mean, another?”

“You’ve told me like three stories this week. And for the record? I haven’t understood --” Her face screws up then in surprise or disgust and she interrupts herself. “Wait, were you about to say they used real _blood?_ ”

“Huh? No, they -- it was synthesized, obviously. But medical-grade type O, so technically real. To get the right texture, and the smell.”

“I’m -- wow. I did not think opera was so, uh. Immersive.”

“Well. This was a special one.” 

They laugh a little. Bobbie squeezes her hand. Chrisjen doesn’t squeeze back. It’s what they do.

“I like that you think I’m the most important woman on Earth,” she teases. “The prettiest, too? Maybe the most attractive?”

“Hey. I’m being serious, here.”

“So am I. Answer the question.”

Her Martian rolls her eyes. But softens. “Of course I think you’re the prettiest woman on Earth, ma’am.” A warm hand flits up to brush Chrisjen’s cheek, and she offers up a sudden smile. “I mean, you do all have that weird short body, right?”

“Don’t be a brat. You were doing so well.”

But it’s what they do. 

She gets up, eventually. She has to. Many, many people are dying. This has always been Chrisjen’s excuse for the things she does, because it’s always true: many, many people are dying. It’s just that sometimes, if she’s very clever, Chrisjen can change the demographics of the dead enough to make it seem like there are fewer. If she’s very clever, and very ruthless. 

It still hurts, of course. 

Or at least she tries to believe it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe we're almost halfway through already? Oh how the time flies! In other news I was halfway through writing a new version of Cherubini's _Médée_ before I realized that would probably be going overboard for a fanfic. I just love sci fi and blood and opera okay T-T And for the record Medea should totally be an alto.


	15. Surface Tension

See, this pain is different. Bobbie is usually good at suppressing aches and pains -- what soldier isn’t -- but this? This fucking Earth gravity? It can go fuck itself right in the ass. 

Like, _fuck._

She has to stop after only thirty reps on her new pullup bar, dropping to the floor with a thud. Her back spasms. It’s been like this for days, refusing to relax, sending shooting pains up her thighs, waking her up with a bone-deep ache that refuses to lighten. Bobbie can see permanent dark circles starting to develop under her eyes. 

It’s too much.

With a groan she sinks to her knees, then to her elbows, laying her forehead on the smooth floor to stretch out her spine. How the hell did humanity ever survive on this murder planet? 

It takes two or ten minutes for Bobbie to realize that someone is behind her, and by then she’s concentrating too hard on not moaning to care. 

“Can I help you?” she groans eventually, without opening her eyes.

“You look pretty fucking unhelpful right now,” Chrisjen says curiously. With a rustle she kneels down, placing a cold hand on the small of Bobbie’s back to brace herself. And then leaving it there. “What is it? Growing pains?”

“Hilarious. You cured me.”

“You’re ill?”

The sudden sharp concern in her employer’s voice warms her heart for a moment. “Not ill. Just… heavy. I’ve been here too long.”

“Oh, dear girl.” With delicate movements the hand on her back begins to roam, pressing down lightly where the muscles are knotted beyond relief. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Look at this.” She jabs at a particularly tight knot, hard, and Bobbie yelps.

“What the _shit!_ ”

The soothing strokes that follow are tinged, to Bobbie’s mind, with a smug righteousness. “When I used to travel off-planet, this happened every time I came home. What you’re doing only makes it worse.”

“Yeah? Care to share what helps?”

The sound of a shrug, earrings clacking. “A long hot bath, an orgasm, and ten hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not necessarily in that order,” she says matter-of-factly. “Although it is the sequence I favour, personally.”

Bobbie coughs. 

What Chrisjen says next doesn’t help to suppress her blush. “Let me take care of you,” she pouts softly, both hands on Bobbie’s back now and kneading in a way that does feel amazing. “You’re no good to me all tied up in knots.”

“I’m fine, thanks. You can let me up now.”

“Make me.”

With a prodigious huff Bobbie sits back on her knees, shaking off the protesting of her muscles, and looks Chrisjen square in the eye. “Alright. So you’re going to give me a hot bath, an orgasm, and ten hours’ sleep?”

To her surprise Chrisjen actually flounders for a millisecond before raising both of her hands elegantly, signalling defeat. “All in good time.” She moves as if to stand, then stops and purses her lips. “Help me up.”

With a shit-eating grin Bobbie gets to her feet and stretches languorously before obeying. “Useless, huh?” she taunts, gripping the thin hand as gently as she can.

Chrisjen pulls a face and waves the thought away, already turning to other things. “Your mattress is too soft,” she says imperiously, entering the room to deliver an accusing pat to the high bed. “I assume you’re accustomed to a more Spartan sleeping situation. And --” without stopping for a reply she moves into the bathroom, “you have the walk-in shower, so no bath. What _was_ I thinking?”

Before Bobbie can object Chrisjen sweeps back out, face set in absolute focus. “Come to mine. I’ll draw the bath while you undress.”

“What -- now?”

“No, I’m just filling my enormous bathtub with scented oils for practice. You know, exercising my faucet-turning hand.”

“I’m busy, Chrisjen.” She can hear the whine in her own voice and curses herself internally.

“We know each other far too well for you to think I care,” Chrisjen calls, already in the hallway. “Ten minutes, Marine.”

 _Do we?_ Bobbie grouses. _Are we really that close?_

She ruminates on this as she peels off her sweaty leggings and sports bra, shrugging on a loose tunic to preserve some shred of dignity. They’ve been living together for… nearly three months now? They’re friends. Sometimes very good friends. Bobbie has seen Chrisjen at her worst, at her most vulnerable -- and vice versa. 

So, sure, okay, they’re close. It feels good to acknowledge that. She tries it out in her head: _we’re close. We take care of each other. We love each other. Oh, fuck._ Bobbie pitches forward. _We love each other. We love each other?_

Her hands are on her knees, but the air shouldn’t be leaving her lungs like this. Of course they love each other, she reasons frantically. For her part Bobbie loves her friends easily, comfortably, letting herself be casual with the word -- it doesn’t mean anything special. And Chrisjen… well.

_Stay with me, Bobbie. Keep me company. Don’t be ridiculous -- hold my hand. Have more fruit. Are you comfortable, do you need anything? You’re here because I want you to be. Oh, dear girl. Let me take care of you._

“You love me.”

There’s a hot, liquidy feeling in her chest as she says it, which is strange because it’s nothing special. Really. She already knows that Chrisjen likes her, and needs her.

Chrisjen _loves_ her.

Bobbie shakes her hands out and wipes the goofy smile from her face, standing up to her full height with a wince. New information: absorbed. Weak feeling in the knees: suppressed. She is going to take a bath in her friend’s bathtub, because they live together anyways and it isn’t weird. It’s just practical. Okay.

Her heart is still beating hot and fast, but that’s easy to explain away.

From across the hall the sound of running water brings her back to task. Right. She lets down her hair and gathers up a towel, still smiling a bit because what the heck -- to be truly honest, she’s been eyeing this tub since she got here.

The door to Chrisjen’s bedroom is open, as it always is. A sweet bracing steam wanders out into the hallway.

“Ginger, bergamot, Epsom salts and lavender,” Chrisjen says briskly as soon as she enters the bathroom. Of course she manages to look commanding even as she leans over the tub, running one hand through steaming water. “Is this too hot?”

The temperature has put two spots of colour in her cheeks. It’s sweet -- domestic. She’s removed most of her rings and bracelets to form a glittery pile on the side of the bath. Moving to bend down next to her Bobbie dips a finger in, stirring up little red and purple-grey petals, and hisses at the heat.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Good. Good. What else do you need?”

There’s an intense focus in her face as she frowns up at Bobbie, searching her eyes. Her mouth is pursed in thought, bottom lip pushed out almost as if in defense -- against what?

She shakes her head, and says nothing.

Chrisjen nods once, businesslike, before wiping her wet hands on Bobbie’s towel and making for the door. “I won’t let you out until the hour is up,” she throws over her shoulder. “Call me if you want me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The door whispers shut, and she’s alone. 

Well, not completely alone. There’s still an assortment of jewelry on the side of the tub to remind her exactly who commands this space, but Bobbie doesn’t really mind anymore. 

Carefully, smiling as she hangs up her towel, Bobbie slips out of her tunic and steps into the bath. Crouches, letting her thighs get used to the heat. Then, with a moan of relief, she sinks in.

She is held.

Careful curves cradle her gently as Bobbie lets her head sink underwater. If she points her toes, they only just reach the opposite end. All around her, suddenly, there is warmth, and Bobbie almost feels like crying.

Instead she comes up with a little splutter and stares down the rings and bangles gleaming at her side.

“Do you know?” she asks them absently. Then: “Why haven’t you told me?”

In the months she has worked here Bobbie’s thoughts have become, she thinks, newly layered. She finds herself sometimes thinking about things she didn’t know that she was thinking, or answering questions she never asked. The easy, direct strength of her consciousness is bending, and she doesn’t _like_ it.

A good soldier does not have thoughts they are not aware of. 

But then, a good soldier doesn’t abandon their post, either.

An hour passes, then another half, and the water doesn’t cool. When she’s finished Bobbie almost reaches for the temp controls to chill herself alert, but of course that would also make her tense again, and there’s something she wants to try first.

She finds Chrisjen as soon as she comes out into the bedroom, curled up in one of those delicate green armchairs with a paper book. Her hair has come down, spilling into her lap, and her white shift is embellished only with black and gold embroidery.

Bobbie, wrapped tight in a towel, has taken care to make herself silent, but Chrisjen still looks up the instant as she emerges. “See?” she smiles. “Isn’t that better?”

“What can I say? You’re always right, you’re the smartest, have my babies. Yeah.”

“I’ll happily try.” She stretches elegantly, twisting her wrists. “That is one of the steps, after all. You’re sleeping here, by the way.”

She blinks. “That was the one that finally got you?”

Chrisjen rolls her eyes, unfolds her legs. “Again, Bobbie, I’m not propositioning you. We’re switching rooms so that you get the solid mattress.” She waves vaguely towards the bed. “It’s better for your back.”

“Little disappointing, but okay.” She grins at Chrisjen’s scowl. “You still don’t have to leave.”

“I really, really do.” 

With a sigh the little woman pushes herself up and sets down her book, laying a hand on Bobbie’s arm as she passes. “You go get something to sleep in,” she says gently. “I have an ointment for your muscles, as well, or you can take one of my pills.”

“Thank you.” 

Briefly, Bobbie thinks she can feel Chrisjen smiling at her back as she pads out to her room. 

In a few quick sweeps she neatens the well-made bed and looks around for something else to clean, but the truth is she doesn’t have much. Slipping into her loose tank top and shorts, she takes a moment to marvel at what her life has become — then retraces her steps. 

“Have you decided?” Chrisjen asks as she returns, and it takes her a moment to connect the dots. 

“Gel, please. I don’t take muscle relaxants.”

“ _Ointment,_ Bobbie.” She’s already holding out a small jar. “This isn’t one of your MCRN dispensaries.”

“I—” she starts as Chrisjen bustles her towards the bed. “You’re a snob, you know that?”

There’s a little laugh behind her, and a quick casual movement, and Bobbie only just has time to realize that Chrisjen is _kissing her shoulder_ before the warmth is withdrawn with a brisk cough.

She turns, and Chrisjen is about to move away, but without another thought Bobbie reaches out and gathers her close.

She is held.

“ _Oh,_ ” says the mouth at her chest, a soft exhalation, and she can feel the other woman’s posture change. Slumping, maybe. Shuddering. But not pulling away. 

The hand in Chrisjen’s hair presses closer of its own volition. The other travels down her spine, settling at the small of her back, and Bobbie curls around her and hangs on for dear life.

If she was numb before -- was she? -- now Bobbie’s nerves endings are tingling with attention. This is _Chrisjen._ Her collarbone jutting into Bobbie’s breast, her quick fluttering heartbeat, the feeling of her skin where it lays flush and hot and _close._

And the very, very slight tremor that runs through her almost too fast to notice. 

“Please let go of me,” Chrisjen says levelly. 

Instantly Bobbie is stepping back, flexing her hands. “Right. So for the rooms —”

“You in mine, and mine in yours. Your back?”

“Still good. Thank you.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that soft mattress of yours.”

“I’ll be fine after this.”

“I’m sure you think you want me, but the power dynamics are fucked.”

Bobbie blinks.

“And that’s never stopped me, true.” She tilts her head, lips pursed. “But I suspect you’d hate yourself afterwards, and I can’t live with that in my house. You understand.”

“Wh—”

“Good. We’ll try again some other time, when the world isn’t ending.” Her face brightens. “So, there are extra blankets in the linen closet here…”

“Chrisjen, no.” Reaching out blindly she takes the other woman’s hand, loosely, waiting for a withdrawal that doesn’t come. “Please.”

Belatedly she realizes which hand she’s taken -- the left one, that she’s not even supposed to look at. But then, almost spasmodically, it tightens around hers -- pulls her in.

“I refuse to hurt you,” Chrisjen says. Her voice is low, harsh, and her eyes burn. “I won’t allow you to _let_ me hurt you.”

“Don’t I get a say?” she almost pleads, stunned by the sudden wave of emotion that wells up from her stomach. _How long have I been wanting this? What is it that I want?_

“If you knew what the fuck you were talking about, maybe.” The dark eyes soften then. “It’s been a long few months, Bobbie, and you’re --” she sucks in a breath -- “you’re so _young_. You need to be _touched._ ”

“And you don’t?”

“I do. Desperately.” Her other hand flutters up to Bobbie’s cheek and rests there, a soft cold weight that she presses against without thinking. “Please understand.”

She doesn’t -- understand, that is. And Chrisjen must read it in her face, but when she nods, Chrisjen still lets her shoulders slump in relief.

“Go to bed, Bobbie,” she says softly. “Sleep well.”

They break apart, and eventually Bobbie does as she says, slipping between Chrisjen’s luxurious sheets without a thought to the irony of it all. 

And she is held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. Blush emoji much? Listen, I said slow burn.
> 
> Shoutout to Ratta for reminding me to post to-day! As always, thank you for reading, and tell you what -- you deserve to relax. Go take a soak and let it carry you towards some kind of truth.


	16. Thus Spake the Mockingbird:

The first proper rain in months comes as a relief. Bright, sharp light from all the windows, yellows and jewelled greens refracting around the property.

It is perfect, clarifying weather, and Chrisjen is still in a funk.

She doesn’t like handling things badly. She isn’t _used_ to handling things badly, and this -- this was barely handled at all. So of course it’s set her all off-balance, and she has the added resentment of that fact to keep her cranky.

Cranky. That’s Arjun’s word for it. Chrisjen prefers _unhappy_ or even _upset_ , but sometimes -- _sometimes_ Arjun is right. He was right about this whole thing from the start, too, which makes her want to shake him. Or smack him. Or fuck him. Or fuck _anyone_.

This is her spiral, she recognizes its seething, but that knowledge doesn’t help at all. All this anger welling up from her stomach and Chrisjen with no outlet. Even her bottom dresser-drawer, with all its lovely distractions, is out of her reach now that she’s stupidly managed to get Bobbie into her bed _without_ her.

Which reminds her, with an uncomfortable jolt, that she is in a body and that that body isn’t alone.

Chrisjen rises much too quickly and blacks out for a moment before regaining her composure. “Come out with me,” she offers spontaneously, flexing the fingers she knows she has but can’t feel. “Mmm? You’re fidgeting.”

“Marines don’t fidget,” Bobbie says automatically, then looks up from the kitchen table and frowns. “What, now?”

And believe it or not, this is the first proper response she’s gotten all morning -- since last night Bobbie has been very careful around her, and very kind, which makes Chrisjen want to scratch long welts into her arms. “ _I’m_ fidgeting, then,” she says, not untruthfully, and rolls her eyes. “Come.”

The insistent shake of her hand rattles her bangles, punctuating, but instead of rising Bobbie glances out the window almost apprehensively.

“Bobbie?”

“Right. Yep.” 

Because, perhaps, of her spiral, it takes another few movements on Bobbie’s part for Chrisjen to get a handle on the situation. “You’ve never been out in the rain.”

Bobbie’s forehead furrows, but Chrisjen rounds the table and takes up both her hands before she can say a word. “You’ve never been out in the rain,” she repeats, and god if that doesn’t make her throat catch. Suddenly there’s such a deep sorrow welling up in her that the irritation is all but forgotten.

Mood swings are another sign of the spiral, if cataloguing that matters anymore.

“It’s not a big deal,” her Martian is saying lightly, tugging her hands away as she stands. Is that a worried look? Maybe some sign of Chrisjen’s unspooling has managed to show itself through the mask -- that would be very bad indeed. “Do you need to change?”

“No.” 

“That’s a first.” She gives a sudden grin, and Chrisjen finds herself responding too easily. “Are we going, then? Right now? What do we need?”

“Some pins for my skirt.” Clearing her throat, she takes it up and experiments with lengths, gathering this bit and the other to her waist. “I don’t want to get tangled. Wet silk --” here she smiles up at Bobbie -- “you remember -- it’s impossible. Will you be going in shoes? I know you Martians never take them off, but I do recommend an exception.”

Bobbie looks down at her feet, surprised, and Chrisjen has to hold back a laugh. “You’re not going out there barefoot?”

“We both are. I'm insisting.” Her hand twitches, about to reach for Bobbie’s again before she has time to think. “It’s delicious, I promise. You should take off your jacket thing, too, it only holds water.”

As she moves out to the front of the house, shrugging off her pallu, her Martian stutters and trails after her like a puppy. “Right, but aren’t we supposed to wear waterproof coats? Or a, an umbrella? We’re not going out there to get soaked.”

“That is precisely what we’re doing.” Now that it’s right in front of her Chrisjen is starting to get truly excited, actually. “Trust me. Please.”

And to her mild surprise, Bobbie actually does.

It’s _warm_ outside, bright midday sun undaunted by the heavy piled clouds that hover all around but can’t quite seem to block its path entirely. Big, lazy drops of rain refracting all that light into dazzling shards. It is the world shattering, the germinal all over again, and Chrisjen stands in the front doorway looking up and breathes and _breathes_ not from the earth but finally from the living air -- is caught in a sudden dizzying, clarifying height, so that she looks down on the world in pure and heart-full mourning.

Once she’s stepped out, wearing nothing but her sleeveless cotton top and pinned-up underskirt, the cool shock of water on her skin is a blessing. 

“It’s so green,” Bobbie exhales as they descend the steps. Taking their time. “I didn’t think it’d be green like this.”

She’s flinching a little as the rain hits her, more out of instinct it seems than anything else. Her commanding frame shrinking into itself. She’s so… _sweet_. So vulnerable.

“We’re lucky. We have the sun, still. In the fall everything will turn grey.” Chrisjen knows she’s making small talk, but she feels it might be useful. Her Martian is on the verge of a crisis of faith. “For two or three weeks we have the most glorious colours, and then the leaves fall and November is… flat. Very crisp. You’ll like the stillness, I think.”

As she says it she watches Bobbie very carefully, standing at her shoulder, looking up only out of the corner of her eye. She sees the dreaminess fading, breaking, as Bobbie realizes what _you’ll like the stillness_ means. As the months unfold before her.

The broad, solid torso shudders for a moment. Shrinks.

But then, almost in defiance, Bobbie grabs Chrisjen’s right hand and fills her lungs. “Give me a second,” she says. “Then we’ll walk.”

Graciously she waits for her Martian’s muscles to relax against the sky and the rain, waits for her to swallow everything she’s feeling. It gives Chrisjen time to adjust as well, because though she’s far better at hiding it she almost feels like shrinking too.

But no. No shrinking here, no sir, no father, she is breathing from the earth again and taking up all the space in the world.

“Come on,” she urges finally, tugging Bobbie by the arm. “You won’t feel dizzy if you keep moving.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Bobbie says, but half-laughing so Chrisjen knows it’s all right. And she lets herself be tugged, too, lets Chrisjen push them both into movement down the slick stone patios and off toward the orchard.

She is breathing too quickly, they both are, but something about the light demands it. There’s a little laugh of wonderment bubbling out of her Martian every now and again, half-squeal, as she quickens her step to look around in amazement. “Is it always like this?” she asks at one point, turning back to where Chrisjen has begun to hang behind. “With all the sun?”

“No. It isn’t.”

She can’t say much more, one hand on her chest to stop from panting (Bobbie has long legs and Chrisjen is all caught up in her excitement), but she returns Bobbie’s smile and hopes it’s enough to convey her meaning, all of her meaning. It isn’t always like this. It’s almost never like this. It never takes her by such bright, hot, dismaying surprise.

And the rain is unusual, too.

Under her feet the ground is still warm, though slippery, and it feels so much like a living thing that Chrisjen shivers now and again at its press. A part of her is panicking, because it feels her rushing headlong into something tight and buzzing, but Chrisjen is so tired of panic that she ignores it completely and lets herself rush, just for now, just for a moment. She’s so tired of being careful. And here she is quite literally disrobed, wet hair coming out of its braids, frolicking through the goddamn rain like a schoolgirl. What is she to do?

Well. Bobbie is laughing, so Chrisjen laughs, too. 

They come at the pond from a different angle than usual, following where the ground is smooth and clean. Eventually, though, they’re at the top of the little rise looking down upon it, and they stop.

“Thanks for making me take off my shoes,” Bobbie says, without even the courtesy of being out of breath.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Chrisjen answers, and that is not what she meant to say at all.

Bobbie says nothing for a bit, though instead of looking stunned she’s just nodding slowly. As if she understands any of it. “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” she starts eventually. “I know your husband is far away, and --”

“Don’t play dumb, Bobbie.”

She blinks. “Ma’am?”

A beat.

Then they’re both laughing again, grabbing each other’s wet hands for balance. “Are you going to call me Madam Avasarala again, now that I’ve said I won’t have sex with you?”

Her Martian actually gasps. “Oh my god! It wasn’t like that! I wasn’t -- I didn’t --”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You really didn’t say anything --”

“That was the gist of it.” There are little tears coming into her eyes now, so unused to genuine laughter, and she wipes at them with one unsteady hand. “Why, is it not what you were asking?”

“I mean -- I wouldn’t --” Her face has gone adorably pink. “Not right away!”

“Ooh, I think you wanted me to ravish you where you stood.” It’s wonderful how easily she can speak on it now, how humorously, stepping closer with a goading little smirk. “Against the wall there, in your boxers. It would have been so easy to overwhelm you.”

“That’s it, I’m done, I’m out.” Pressing both hands to her face Bobbie whirls and hiccups out a few gasps, trying and failing to contain her laughter. “If you need me I’ll --”

It happens very quickly, one moment to the next. Bobbie moves to step away, still off-balance with her hands over her eyes, and then she’s dropped out of sight and there’s a sharp little scream coming from one or the other of them and Chrisjen lurches forward to catch her --

It’s Bobbie’s quick reflexes that save her from landing hard as her own footing falters on the slick incline. All at once the big arms are encircling her, pressing her against Bobbie’s hiccuping chest where she’s still laughing and lying back against the rise that they are now at the foot of.

“Son of a --”

“Whoo!” With a gloating shout Bobbie cuts off her budding stream of expletives and throws one giddy fist into the air. “Fuck! Jesus!”

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Chrisjen tries, but she isn’t hurting and she’s still confused and still full of laughter despite the fact that she’s on the ground. “Are you --”

“I’m fine. I’m alive! _We’re_ alive,” she blurts, squeezing Chrisjen tight to her once more. “Are you?”

“I’ll live.” She winces, suddenly thinking of the impact. “How did you -- did I land on you?”

“I pulled you on top of me so you wouldn’t hit the ground. It’s fine, you weigh nothing compared to my old drill partner -- what do you eat, air?”

“And pistachios, sometimes,” Chrisjen laughs. She is on the ground, lying on top of her Martian, in the grass, in the rain, on her home planet, and she laughs. “I’m actually very sick.”

“You really are,” Bobbie answers, and sobers for a second until Chrisjen gives her a warning look. “We should... do something about that?”

“There are more important things to take care of.” Oh, but this is a delightful thing to lie atop. Her wet face finds its way into the crook of Bobbie’s neck, unthinkingly, and somehow her hands have slipped into her damp hair. “Fuck.”

“Don’t move. Not yet.”

It is bright and strange and it should not exist -- this weather, this warmth in her stomach, this looming unfathomable horror on Eros. Gunnery Sergeant Bobbie Draper, defector. Everything is so, so terribly wrong, and Chrisjen is so, so terribly ill, and so, so terribly exhausted.

She does not move.

Eventually they will have to untangle their limbs and wring out their soaking garments and trudge back up to the house. Eventually they will have to dry themselves and collect themselves and get back to all the important things that need to be done. Eventually, even, Chrisjen will take her terminal back up and look at her security feed and feel her stomach drop into her knees when she sees _[Appointment Confirmation]_ with the name Emin attached -- and when that happens she will feel so betrayed that her vision goes speckled white.

For a moment, though, she’s lying in the rain. And she isn’t cold, and she isn’t lonely, and she isn’t -- no, she isn’t even afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi O.O How is everyone? Happy Angela Davis's Birthday! Power up power up
> 
> The title is taken from a poem I love, which will come up later, so I shan't link it yet! And the dazzling rain is taken from my wishful thinking, because winter in Montreal can get... dreary. Come put some light into my heart?


	17. Time Enough

Doctor Emin is brought to the house in an armed car.

Well, not all the way to the house. At the bottom of the driveway a UN security detail bundles him out of his seat and escorts him -- practically _carries_ him up to the porch, where a second higher-level security team is waiting to usher him in through the entryway and into Bobbie Draper’s waiting arms.

And after all that -- everything she’s done to keep strangers out of Chrisjen’s house, to keep the guards calm and unintrusive, to get a handle on this ridiculous situation -- Chrisjen has been sulking on the couch since about five hundred hours.

The neurologist is a fine-boned man, shorter than Bobbie thought he’d be and obviously still flustered from the shakedown on his way here. She gives him her least threatening smile and tries not to let too much relief into her voice. “Good to meet you, Doctor,” she says quickly, offering her hand.

He looks over his shoulder at the guards that remain outside the door, then back at Bobbie with almost as much relief as she. “Likewise, Sergeant Draper,” he says as they shake hands. Bobbie appreciates his grip. “Where are we meeting?”

She gestures over her shoulder into the living room, where a lump of pampered silks is pouting motionlessly out the window.

Emin nods, sighs ever so slightly. “Madam Avasarala,” he says, smiling gamely at the back of her head. “How are you feeling?”

“Go away, Avishai.”

“That is certainly a feeling.” Briskly, Emin slips off his shoes -- is that just an Earth thing? -- and crosses to the living room. Then hovers, uncertainly. “Really, though. How are you?”

Chrisjen gives a deep huff. Stands, shaking out her gold and green petticoats. “Fuck,” she grumbles. “Alright. One hug, then you go make tea.”

“Uh--” Bobbie starts -- then gapes as the doctor embraces her employer warmly, _kisses her cheek,_ and sets down his carryall. “I... take it we’re skipping the instructional brief?”

Chrisjen smirks triumphantly, patting the doctor’s arm as he glances at her in surprise. “Oh, I --” he turns to Bobbie -- “I thought you knew? My apologies, Sergeant, I didn’t mean to ignore procedure.”

“Stuff it, Avi.” Chrisjen flaps a hand impatiently. “Bobbie, I’ve known him since he was a snotty little brat. He’s allowed to be casual with me. As is _anyone_ I allow into my family home,” she adds to Emin, “so you can stop looking at my aide like she’s about to pull a gun on you.”

Bobbie blinks and Emin opens his mouth as if to ask a question, but they both change their minds at the last second. She makes an effort to loosen her stance. _I guess I deserved that. A little._

“Suppose I’d better put the kettle on,” the doctor says demurely, though the corners of his eyes are crinkled in a half-smile. “You’ll be wanting lapsang souchong, I’m guessing?”

“Which will be consumed fully before I answer a single fucking medical question,” Chrisjen continues, scowling. “I’m sure you know this was not my decision. My infinite patience is beginning to wear thin.”

“Ah yes, that famous infinite patience of yours.”

“Wearing _thin,_ Avi.” 

As he disappears into the kitchen Bobbie comes to stand by Chrisjen’s shoulder, has to stop herself from placing a protective hand on her back, and glowers internally. “So,” she murmurs, “how casual are we letting him get, exactly?”

“I had him pulled ahead of the waitlist for medical school,” Chrisjen answers without looking away from the kitchen doorway. “And I’ve been a close friend of the family for long enough to know how they think. It would take a Luna intervention to turn the Emins against me.”

“Luna intervention?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Psychological torture, mostly. Personality replacement. It’s effective, but they do leave a mark if you know what you’re looking for.” Her voice is still low and pleasant, conversational. “Especially if you know the target well.”

Bobbie suppresses a shudder. “That’s horrifying.”

Chrisjen takes her arm, smiling gently, and nudges her towards the kitchen. “I know. I secured funding for most of their programs. Avi, did you find the good tea? It’s on a high shelf, maybe my Martian can help.”

He laughs as they enter the room, fiddling with temperature controls on the kettle. Bobbie, setting aside that disturbing new factoid, collects herself enough to ascertain that most of the tension she sees in him is worry. The least she can hope is that this rough beginning is the extent of her employer’s little hissy fit.

Chrisjen seems utterly relaxed now. But then she almost always does.

“My parents told me to send their love,” Emin throws over his shoulder. “Well, two out of three. You know how Nouri is.”

Another nudge directs Bobbie towards a chair at the end of the kitchen table, Chrisjen alighting gracefully to her left. “Tell me, how are they?” she asks, flashing a brilliant smile. “Kiva especially. I was thinking of them not six days ago, you remember, Bobbie, when we were discussing Medea?”

“You two and Medea.” He rolls his eyes, turning to lean against the counter while the water boils. “I still remember one dinner party where you spent at least an hour tearing apart Cherubini’s adaptation together.” He laughs to himself. “Kiva’s thriving, running a music program for urban youth back in Gaza. Dad and Nouri are looking to restore some heritage architecture. Pretty quiet, you know?”

“That sounds like just what they need,” says Chrisjen. “And whatever happened to your grant with the Zhao Foundation…?”

Bobbie tunes out as they make pleasantries, keeping a casual silence as she observes the dynamics. She makes flowcharts and concept maps: how Emin moves about the kitchen, the variations of Chrisjen’s voice, what each might do next. The probability of sudden danger, which is admittedly low. 

Still, Chrisjen hasn’t once reached up to mess with her chunky gold earrings. Which means she’s nervous. Or would be, if she could experience any human emotion at all. 

_That’s harsh,_ Bobbie chastises herself as a steaming teapot is set on the table before her. _Play nice._

Chrisjen pours out three cups with practiced elegance, holding her little finger away from the ceramic handle. “I don’t think we’ve had this one yet, Bobbie,” she smiles. “Tell me what you think. Avi is a fine hand with the lapsang souchong, but it takes some getting used to.”

Obediently Bobbie takes her cup in both hands, blowing, and throws a glance at Chrisjen when she gets a whiff of smokehouse seasoning. “I’m sure it’s delicious. Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome.” She watches his eyes track Chrisjen’s right hand as she brings her own cup to her lips. “It’s really my pleasure.”

“Am I allowed to feed you?” Chrisjen asks after a few sips. “I would love to keep you for lunch. Bobbie makes very interesting Martian greens.”

“That’s very kind of you. Perhaps if we finish early.” His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly. “I have a few check-up questions, if you’d like to start with those.”

Chrisjen scowls over the rim of her cup, and Bobbie finds herself kind of impressed at Emin’s lack of evident fear. His movements are delicate and precise as he activates his tablet, pulling up two windows of text. “It won’t take long,” he adds. “Just this and the scan, then it’s over. I’m truly sorry, Auntie, but you know this isn’t a social visit.”

“Hey.” A warning finger levels in his direction. “Am I still fucking your parents?”

Bobbie dies a little inside. Emin just sighs. “Not unless you have them hidden in the pantry, I shouldn’t think.”

“Then I’m not your auntie. You call me Chrisjen, and we’ll revisit the issue when they let me out of prison.”

He snickers, nose wrinkling as he casts a sardonic glance over his cup, and Bobbie realizes she’s actually starting to like him. “Prison. That’s good. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make Kiva the first thing you do as a free woman, thanks.”

The old lady snorts, setting down her own cup to fold her hands over the table. “I suppose we should get this over with. Bobbie, be a dear and clear the table?”

She clears her throat and Emin hurries to finish his tea, frowning in a way that leads Bobbie to think he knows what Chrisjen is doing just as well as she does. It isn’t _fair,_ the way she’s lashing out at them when they’re just trying to help, trying to set them off-balance just because she feels out of control. It’s childish. Bobbie would tell her as much, too, if they didn’t have company.

Well. Maybe she wouldn’t. But the thought is there.

“There are a few tests we’ll complete during the scan,” Emin is saying, taking everything more or less in stride as Bobbie awkwardly rises and makes for his cup and saucer -- her own disgusting savoury tea untouched. “And I suppose the checkup can happen at the same time. Efficiency, you know.”

“I’m an open book, Herr Doktor.” Chrisjen lifts one hand graciously, smiling a little. “I live but to serve.”

He actually snorts, strangling a laugh and biting the inside of his cheek as Bobbie struggles not to do the same. “We can, uh, move to the sitting room if you like,” he offers. “It’s more comfortable.”

They hang back, letting him go first, and again Chrisjen takes her arm. “You’ll sit with me?” she asks without asking. “I don’t like the scans.”

“Why not?”

“The man is looking into my brain, Bobbie. And thanks to my little _nudge_ with the education board he actually knows what he’s looking at.” She sighs as they retrace their steps. “Of course it was the only acceptable option. I needed a medical team I could trust.”

“Wait.” Another piece finds its place in a puzzle Bobbie doesn’t actually want to complete. “So you groomed --”

A sharp quick squeeze to her forearm.

“-- Nancy Gao to take office one day?” she finishes smoothly as the doctor looks up at them. The name is pulled randomly from her state-of-the-union lessons, but she could probably argue the point if pressed. Probably.

Goddamnit, Chrisjen.

Luckily Emin seems entirely preoccupied with his little set-up, cracking open a diagnostic kit on the coffee table as he waves them to the couch. It’s fancier than a Martian one, more distinct parts, and when he pulls a pair of actual _spectacles_ out of his pocket Bobbie can’t help but let out a startled giggle.

“My viewscreen,” he explains a little sheepishly as he puts them on. “Hands-free.”

“Cute.” She takes a perch on the arm of the couch and pretends not to notice Chrisjen’s disapproving glance. “Does it come in monocle?”

Emin snorts again, which is nice of him. “I’m just going to apply the nodes,” he says to Chrisjen, still smiling encouragingly and apparently unaffected by her prodigious scowl. “You remember.” 

“I remember.”

He’s gentle, Bobbie has to give him that, swabbing Chrisjen’s temples with a little disinfectant square and pressing each button-sized node to her skin very carefully. _He loves her,_ Bobbie thinks with a private smile. _That’s good._

Once all five are placed to his satisfaction, the last with some difficulty at the base of her neck under all that hair, Emin sits back on top of the coffee table and gives one last firm nod. “Ready? I’ll be quick.”

Chrisjen takes Bobbie’s hand on her knee, still scowling, and grunts a vague affirmative. The nodes light up when the doctor taps something on his terminal and she starts, spasmodically, waving Bobbie away before she has a chance to react.

“There we go,” Emin murmurs almost to himself. His eyes are distant now, flicking back and forth behind the activated lenses. “You’ve kept up with all your meds?”

“Most of them, I think. The new phenol thing made me fall asleep practically every night.”

“You do know you’re supposed to do that.”

“You’ve seen my brain. I’m fine. Next?”

“Uh.” He shifts, taps the side of his nose. “I almost hesitate to ask, but did you cut down on alcohol even a little bit?”

“Avi, please.”

“I’m just saying it would help.” With a little frown Emin taps something on his terminal, pinches his fingers to zoom in. The nodes flicker. “That’s odd. At this point we should have seen some significant improvement -- if things don’t regulate properly we’re looking at a much higher chance of, uh, dementia.”

He catches himself at the last moment, looking over his glasses to meet Chrisjen’s eyes apologetically, but she shrugs and waves her free hand again. “Early onset dementia doesn’t run in my family,” she says breezily. “I’m not too worried.”

“Auntie -- we’re far past ‘early onset.’” 

He says it so gently, so caringly, that Bobbie can feel Chrisjen’s muscles string taut as a bow within the instant. But she just nods, and says nothing.

“Let’s get some more activity here,” Emin says finally, brightening. “Tell me about Medea. What was wrong with Cherubini again?”

Chrisjen brightens too, straightening a little where she’s been sulking. “ _You_ know what he did wrong. Making her a soprano was ridiculous -- Medea is obviously an _alto._ Like me.” A little flutter of smug pride enters her voice near the end, interrupted by Emin’s snort.

“You, madam, are a bass baritone and no mistake,” he corrects. “A very nice one. Kiva loves your voice and they’re impossible to please -- don’t you dare say anything, I can see you smirking.”

“I was just going to add that the Koslow adaptation has a much better libretto, as well,” she smiles innocently. “Is that enough?”

“Just about. I just can’t parse this _deterioration_ \--” From this side of his glasses Bobbie can kind of see what he’s doing, moving around a model of a brain that must be -- ugh, that must be Chrisjen’s in real time. “Sergeant Draper, would you mind letting go for a second?”

“Huh? Oh, right.” 

She lifts Chrisjen’s hand off her lap, trying to be casual, and the latter delivers a patronizing little pat to her knee before withdrawing and folding her hands right over left. Whatever Emin sees in her brain then seems to amuse him, but apparently he doesn’t care to share.

Bobbie is watching him closely now, partly because it’s her job and partly because there isn’t much else to do. He navigates the displays in his glasses and tablet with quick, confident movements, highlighting this bit and the other and making cryptic little notes. Every so often he asks something of Chrisjen -- squeeze this, tell me about that, look over here -- and she obeys coolly and easily, perfectly composed.

It’s worse than if she were complaining.

Because, though, of her close watch, Bobbie also sees the doctor’s expression growing gradually tighter. She sees him go pale, slowly but surely, searching furiously through blocks of obscure text and growing more and more agitated as he goes. Not agitated -- angry.

So when he finally snaps his diagnostic kit closed, startling Chrisjen out of her fine-motor exercise, Bobbie sits up straight and almost knows what’s coming.

“It was us,” he says quietly, pulling off his glasses in one quick irritated movement. “Auntie -- Chrisjen -- it was us. I’m so sorry. One of the UN doctors switched you from valpro to tamoxifen and I can’t tell why or how they did it without my noticing but it’s interacting badly with the other drugs and now -- and you --”

Chrisjen is frowning, but only lightly, and when Bobbie turns her focus towards her she’s twitching ever so slightly in that way that means she’s connecting a lot of dots very very fast.

“Not even a _student_ should make this mistake,” Emin continues, standing in agitation to pull out his terminal. “If I hadn’t come here when I did you could have --”

“Avi.”

“It’s shameful, is what it is. And the fact that they did it to _you_ \--”

“Avi.”

“Chrisjen, I can’t tell you how sorry I am, there’s no way I could have missed it --”

“ _Avi._ ”

He stops, finally, when he sees how intense her expression has become. The strange, unreadable mix of dark anger and pure, bright thrill.

“It wasn’t a mistake.”

And when Bobbie finally realizes what that means --

She sees red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember early last year when I was updating every other day? Past me was so iconic I love that I'm channeling her again <3 Anyways. Take care of your health, kids.


	18. An Interlude. A Sudden Lack of Grace.

_Even as you speak it, the truth is throwing you farther into yourself than you have ever willingly been._

_At first you try to be confused by this, because of course you have borne worse. You have borne the unbearable so often, in fact, that it has become almost routine. But the knife thuds into your guts as soon as you remember why this horror is so familiar, because it has a name: violation._

_And it is unbearable. Again._

_None of your terror breaches the surface of you, none of your anguish. You are still Chrisjen, somehow, still asking about withdrawal in an even tone and noticing for the first time a small broken vein in your right hand, threading purple-blue against the pad of your thumb. It hurts faintly, now that you’re looking. A pinch deep in the muscle. You can’t think how it might have come to be, this little trauma to the flesh, unless you clenched your fists too tight when the nodes punched into your temples._

_Ooh, your temples. The_ nodes. _The deepest, most secret parts of you sampled and parted and you can barely stand that delicate manoeuvre when you_ consent _to it much less this sickening betrayal and the slick poison of, of —_

_Your face begins to twist up, mask slipping for a moment before you can catch it. It is unthinkable. It is unbearable._

_Pure, anguished disgust causes your stomach to clench so hard that bile rises. They took your_ mind _from you. They took your power and your control and your influence, and as if they didn’t know that this in itself would drive you mad they reached inside you and and and —_

_It is unthinkable. It is unbearable._

_But you are still Avasarala, somehow, and you cannot help but look at this cruelty with a sick admiration, because — well. You are still Avasarala, somehow._

_In the hollow of your back your blouse has begun to stick and there’s a clammy heat building under the band of your brassiere. Are you sweating? You can’t remember the last time you did that. Silk doesn’t exactly breathe but you know how to wear it -- at least you did. You must have layered something wrong when you were getting dressed. Is this a cotton shift, or more silk? Has it gone so far that you can’t even dress yourself? How much have you lost already? Will you ever recover it?_

_Do you care?_

_Yes, there is a high, keen, gibbering panic. There is a part of you that claws at the insides of your flesh. But this is not the sum of you, and the sum of you itself is just… very, very tired._

_You have borne the unbearable time and time again, after all. And there were things so much more unbearable than this._

_So. You exhale._

“Stop talking, Avi,” Chrisjen says pleasantly, turning back to her neurologist with a slow, even blink. “I didn’t hear any of that.”

“Right,” he cuts off instantly. “Right.”

There’s an awkward, silent moment in which Chrisjen is able to sit back and take stock. Avishai has gone grey, eyes wide and devastated like a child’s as he rises and begins to pace the living room. Beside her Bobbie says nothing, barely moves, and as soon as she turns her attention to her Martian she can tell without looking that the woman is absolutely _thrumming_ with rage.

That’s good. It gives her something to fix.

“Bobbie?” she starts, reaching out automatically. “Bobbie. Look at me.”

Her head turns, though her eyes don’t follow for another few moments. “Fuck,” she breathes. Moves as if to stand, then sinks back onto the arm of the divan. “Fuck. Okay, here’s what we need to --”

“Breathe in from the cold earth, remember? Come down. Sit properly.” Gently, oh so gently, Chrisjen squeezes her big hand and guides her down to the seat. “Breathe in through the soles of your feet. Take it into your stomach. Hold it there.”

“Stop it.”

“I won’t. Don’t be upset, Bobbie, we don’t have time for it, hmm? Be a good girl for me just this once. Breathe out.”

She understands, after all. This if nothing else is a part of the situation that Chrisjen has a handle on; she knows how it feels to have purpose and pride only to discover that you’ve been failing the whole time. That you’ve been made a fool of. 

And if she’s projecting a little, well. Certainly stroking her Martian’s hand and speaking to her in a low even voice can’t hurt, whatever the problem is.

Finally Bobbie’s breathing evens and she sits up with a curt nod. “I’m going to kill them,” she says simply.

Her tone makes it an easy statement of fact. Dispassionate, almost. 

Then Avishai, who was gazing at them strangely a moment ago and has since ducked down to his terminal, looks back up with a glare. “Not if I get at them first.”

There is such heat in his gaze all of a sudden that Chrisjen pauses, taken aback. When they first met, Avi was a delicate boy -- young for his age and nervously attentive as a bird. She has always thought of him as Bilal and Kiva’s glasslike little son, the solemn teenager she would drink with in the small hours of the night while his parents slept. The vivid righteousness she sees in him now is --

_Not surprising. You encouraged it in him._

Ah. Yes. She does remember, now, how she learned to make his eyes light up just like this during those long quiet talks. And, well. Here is the dear ally she has made.

So. Chrisjen may be compromised, but she is still Chrisjen. Somehow.

When she speaks again her voice is rough, coloured with a carefully-measured combination of irony and dry worry. “I think I’m the only one being killed here, actually,” she points out with a delicate hand. “If I’ve correctly understood the situation.”

That shuts them up.

Though not for long. “You are _not,_ ” Avi says hotly as Bobbie finally disentangles their fingers and springs to her feet. It’s a bit much, all this movement, and Chrisjen’s vision begins to swim as the pressure builds in her head. She’s struck with a sudden desperation to be alone, and in bed.

“Then what you need to tell me,” she says instead, “is what I have to do to get this drug the fuck out of me.”

And he finally explains, in a roundabout way. Ever his father’s son he has to contextualize first, explaining everything he thinks she needs to understand before getting to the point -- how she’s been taking the sodium valproate for ages now, which she knows, it helps steady her wild ups and downs -- and how technically tamoxifen is supposed to do the same thing, though it was a cancer drug before they figured out what it was really good for. He talks about her stroke medications and all the complications she went through then, and how the interactions work between each drug and how that’s where the real poison is because of she weren’t taking this exact combination of medications at this exact time she would probably be fine. 

Chrisjen fades in and out of this, picking up the important threads and letting him talk himself out -- decades’ worth of government meetings makes this second nature. But around the middle of his lecture he stops directing the information at Chrisjen and she turns to find that Bobbie has stopped pacing to take out her terminal and --

“Tell me you’re not -- oh, son of a motherfucking whore.”

Her Martian glances over at her without a hint of sheepishness, resting her forearms on the back of the divan. “I’m your aide. It’s my job to take notes.”

“No. _No._ Stop that.” Something inside her head pops when she stands, hitting her with a wave of nauseating pain, but she blinks it away and glares. “That’s enough, Avishai. Send me a report I’ll never read like the other medics. Can you fix it?”

“Can I --” She’s interrupted him mid-sentence and now he stumbles. “I don’t know if it _can_ be fixed, Chrisjen.”

“Then find out. Do you want a cup of tea before you leave?”

Of course she’s being short with him. He needs to be useful now, and he’s more useful when he’s slightly annoyed -- sharper, quicker in a way. Anyways she doesn’t really care anymore because she’s fading out again before he has a chance to answer.

It’s what needs to happen sometimes.

And when she comes to, the house is quiet again. Chrisjen blinks out of her reverie with a slow breath, grimaces at the rattle. She’s set daintily on the big armchair closest to the window, staring out to the garden, frowning so deeply that her jaw aches -- business as usual for such a day. Vaguely she finds herself hoping that she sent Avi off properly, though she knows he couldn’t have taken home a packet of the good tea if she’d prepared one. A goodbye and a pat to the cheek, then. And regards to the parents.

Surely she remembered. These kinds of things she can do in her sleep.

Almost reluctantly Chrisjen begins to stir, wincing as the familiar aches present themselves one after the other. She wants gin and lime, something to settle her stomach. Maybe a painkiller. 

_Oh, but your skin hurts. All over numb and sore at once. Cringing even at the faintest eddying movements of the air._

In the end she barely makes it to the liquor cabinet before Bobbie reappears. Funny how such a big woman can go missing from Chrisjen’s awareness like that -- though in her defense her awareness is in the process of being compromised, and she’s gotten rather used to having her Martian around. If sometimes resentful.

“You shouldn’t,” Bobbie is saying gently, which just sets her teeth on edge and proves the point. “Emin said --”

“As if I give a flying fuck what Emin said.”

“Chrisjen, if you just let me --”

“I don’t want to let you, Bobbie!” A dangerous tremor enters her voice there and she slams the liquor cabinet shut, cursing under her breath when a lock of hair floats down into her eyelashes. “God, you’re so fucking sanctimonious. What are you going to do, _punch_ the dementia out of me?”

As soon as she says it she realizes she’s made a mistake, letting a tantrum build up while she wasn’t looking. But she’s said the word now and she’s breathing hard and she knows her eyes must be a little wild because Bobbie is taking a step forward with her hands out as if to steady something.

“It’s not exactly dementia,” Bobbie says. “Not yet, right? And now we know it’s there.”

There. Slick against the back of her brain, branching out like mould and colonizing and sickening and curdling --

Chrisjen spins on her heel and shoves past the other woman towards the stairs, ignoring the noises of worry and protest that follow. She’s unsure of where she’s going, exactly, other than a room with fewer fucking windows so that she can close her eyes and actually see the dark.

Her sari comes off in the hall, then her blouse and petticoat and constricting deep-necked brassiere by the time she’s in her bedroom. The bra left a pattern of indented pink lines on her breasts and under her arms; she’s prone to bruising and flushing here, bleeds easily when encouraged. Chrisjen brings her hands to her chest, flinches when her fingers meet the hot skin. Her extremities are always so cold these days. This morning, in the sun room, she found the nail beds of her left hand turning blue.

The chill helps her breathe, though. Think a little more reasonably. For example: the loose shift on her bed that she’s about to slip on is not, in fact, a shift, because for the moment this is not her bed. 

After barely a moment’s consideration she pulls it on anyways and shoves the overlong sleeves up to her forearms. There’s one thing she can fix now -- or at least ease a little. 

And the look on Bobbie’s face when she reappears downstairs almost makes up for all the conspiracy with Avishai. 

“Here.” Chrisjen stops in the archway and spreads her arms flatly, feeling the hem of the enormous shirt climb her thighs. “One hour to feel sorry for me, and then I get back to work.”

“...That’s my sleep shirt.”

“Indeed.”

“That I sleep in.”

“A wise observation, Marine. Are you going to use me or not?”

Bobbie blinks, wipes the stunned look off her face as she begins to understand. “Are you… okay?”

“I don’t know yet. We’re taking care of you now.”

“I…” She shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t want you to think that…”

“That I’ve been manipulated into letting you feel up my soft little body? Bobbie, please. You need to feel like you can keep me safe, and I want to give that to you. For --” she glances at the clock in the kitchen -- “fifty nine minutes.”

She’s warming up to the idea, Chrisjen can tell. Her leg bounces once. “You sure?”

“Don’t be idiotic.”

And finally -- _finally_ \-- there is a break. 

Her Martian lets out a half-breathed laugh and jumps to her feet. Almost in the same instant she’s crossed the living room and her arms are around Chrisjen and she’s lifting her, holding her, burying her face in Chrisjen’s hair and oh oh _oh,_ Bobbie is not the only one who needs this.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in a high tight voice. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you safe. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Bobbie.” With some difficulty she shifts her arms to return the embrace and melts in, tries not to think about her feet dangling a good few inches off the ground. “My Martian. My darling girl. You’ve been _so good_ to me.”

And she is too exhausted now to speak anything but the truth. Bobbie _has_ been good to her, _is_ good to her as she half-carries her to the big couch and pulls a blanket over them both. There’s a bit of a tremor in Chrisjen’s chest as the heat begins to spread through her, a release of something wound beyond bearing. It is good.

She isn’t sure how long they stay there, pressed up against each other, breathless with relief. Longer than she planned. When the world comes back to them with a familiar digital ring neither moves, but Chrisjen opens her eyes and finds her Martian frowning.

“What are you going to do?” Bobbie asks softly. Genuinely.

And Chrisjen, who has known what has to happen since she came back from that first fadeout, sighs. Feels a tired smile begin to form, a bitter laugh stir in her chest.

“What any good, moral woman would do, Bobbie.” The laugh escapes her then, harder and shorter than she intended it to. Her mouth tightens as it subsides. “I’m going to talk to my pastor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :o)


	19. Taper Point

The next few days seem to happen all at once.

First Bobbie is holding her… whatever they are to each other -- her employer, her only friend, a woman who loves her and is loved in return -- but no. That isn’t good. That’s assumption and uncertainty, bad for situation maps. 

She abstracts: Bobbie, former Martian marine, is holding Chrisjen, forever Earth politician, in her lap. These are true things, easy to verify. 

More true things: Chrisjen is very small, but also not as plush as Bobbie remembers from the last three times they’ve been in such close contact. Because there were exactly three. And yet the feeling of her body on each of these occasions is so acutely burned into Bobbie’s memory that she immediately recognizes the narrowed hips, the sharpened shoulders.

Also. Every time she makes a little contented noise in the back of her throat and moves against Bobbie’s torso, Chrisjen sounds almost like she’s purring, and if that’s a bit much for Bobbie to process it is nevertheless another true thing.

They’re interrupted, and Bobbie says something indistinct, and Chrisjen makes some kind of joke. Laughs bitterly. Bobbie isn’t really paying attention to any of it at that point, because she is realizing all of a sudden that she has made an implied promise she can’t keep.

Then it’s the next day, and there’s a flurry of comms activity from the medical centre, and an outgoing call to that strange blonde preacher who seems to be so very important all of a sudden. 

By that time Chrisjen has warmed up, _keyed_ up, so that she’s become a force of pure intention and energy and purpose and the poor reverend stands no chance at all of denying anything she asks for. If Bobbie now aches somewhere inside to have that energy turned upon _her,_ it is not a conscious desire -- she keeps her thoughts and hands to herself, stands guard, looks stoically intense. There is an art to looking stoic, which Bobbie has mastered. It projects an aura of concentrated danger about her. 

Chrisjen does not seem to notice.

A few more days, and the activity settles into something more predictable. The vivid sensory memory of jutting hip bones and delicate, loosening skin prompts Bobbie to ask about food -- she’s waved off, asks again, is waved off again. The third time she asks, Chrisjen finally scowls up at her and says sorghum-flour porridge with a look that suggests she thinks she’s ended it. But Bobbie has nothing better to do, so she looks it up and orders the flour and figures out how to spice and flavour it so that it makes the whole kitchen smell like sweet chai, and finally Chrisjen does accept it with a strange little smile and a hand on Bobbie’s waist. 

When she’s alone, Bobbie reads medical documents to distract herself. She can’t request anything more than what she’s given for fear of being admonished, but she’s given more than enough. She goes back to her own room, smells sharp incense around her pillowcases, keeps the pyjama shirt that Chrisjen wore separate from her other clothes.

And now she is here in front of a camera, looking older than she remembers.

Only now, it feels like, does she take a breath. 

Bobbie can’t remember when this was offered to her, actually. She put it out of her head as soon as it came up, because she was busy -- and then continued to diligently not think about it until the comms centre rang her ten minutes ago and said it had to happen now.

This is why she’s been blinking at her image in the mirrored display, and saying nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“Hi, Dad,” she says anyways. “It’s me.”

An inane way to start. A start nonetheless.

“I know I must be the last person you want to hear from right now,” she continues tentatively. It’s growing more and more difficult to imagine how he might react to anything she says. “But you don’t have to watch this, I guess. I just wanted to let you know I’m alright.”

Stupid, stupid. She’s proving that she cares more about herself than her planet. With a sigh Bobbie scrubs the recording, starts again. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to explain why I did what I did.”

Nope. Scrub. Repeat. “I want you to know that I’m doing what’s best, even if you can’t see it yet.”

Worse. “I can’t tell you everything.” Well, that’s a true thing. “But I’m doing what needs to be done. You know that doesn’t always look right from the outside.”

Sometimes you lie about your daughter, make yourself look bad because you can’t stand to have her be the one to make the mistake. Sometimes you get involved in interplanetary -- intergalactic? -- politics against your will and then switch sides just to get some control over your life. Or for love, or whatever. Everyone does questionable things, is the point Bobbie tries to make as she stops and starts and stutters. Drapers especially.

And in the end she sends it off without bothering to edit much, because, well. He can parse it out.

Besides, Bobbie doesn’t have the last say on the editing anyways. She has been very graciously informed that a UN comms team will be going over her message and kindly snipping out everything they don’t like, so she has no need to worry about hurting the Earth any more than she already has.

Maybe they’ll brush out the bags under her eyes, too.

Bobbie snorts, turning her head to get a better look at herself in the floating display. It could be the light -- she’s crammed into a corner of the kitchen to avoid a background that’s too obnoxiously Earther, and the sun is hitting her at a strange angle. Also, the sun is hitting her. Who’s to tell if he’ll even recognize her, brightly-lit as she has become.

Her internal grumbling is interrupted by a flash of colour at the kitchen door, a distracting rustle of silk. “Are you done?”

“She says, loudly, ruining the recording.”

“I know you’re done, Bobbie. I was being polite.” Chrisjen’s presence spreads through the bright kitchen by increments, uncharacteristically gentle. It feels like she’s actually measuring herself out, holding back her usual magnitude somehow. “You’re between me and my kettle, I’m afraid.”

This is a gross exaggeration, actually, but Bobbie takes it to mean that her alone time is over. Which she finds herself surprisingly unresentful of.

She watches the other woman manipulate her soft orange skirts and round the table. Flick her drape-y shawl out of the way to fill the kettle. Hum a little to herself like some kind of normal person.

“You were eavesdropping,” Bobbie says finally, resisting the urge to glare.

“It’s a small house, Bobbie.” A wry smile. “Besides. Do you really call the man _'dad'_?”

“I -- yeah?” She drops her terminal onto the table as she pulls out a chair, taking a seat with one knee up against her chest. 

Chrisjen snorts out a half-laugh and rattles one bangled hand at her when Bobbie makes a face as if to object. “Such a child. Well -- I have the perfect tea for you.”

“Yeah, I guess your kids call you Madam Avasarala, huh? Makes perfect sense.”

The flinch is so minute that it doesn’t even disturb Chrisjen’s elaborate earrings, doesn’t even register on her face. But Bobbie catches the jump of tension in her muscles because that is what she is _trained_ to catch, and when she realizes her mistaken pluralization she’s taken by an overwhelming desire to be blown out an airlock.

And yet in the nanosecond it took her to make these connections Chrisjen has started laughing again, if a little sarcastically. “Ashanti hasn’t called me Maman since she was -- oh, I can’t even remember. A serious little thing she was. And --” 

As she spoons loose-leaf tea into an elegant glass pot Chrisjen’s expression flickers with sudden recollection. “No, I do remember. She’d just found some way to infiltrate my medical records, God knows why, and she was -- angry at me. Thirteen.” A wry glance. “You remind me of her.”

It’s an insignificant jab, more out of habit than anything else, so Bobbie lets it slide as she accepts the proffered empty mugs and sets them on the table. “Shocked to find out that you were a human being?”

“Much more dramatic. My Ashanti is very _clever_ , very _calculating,_ Bobbie.”

“Isn’t that a surprise.”

“Shush. So I came home one afternoon and found her waiting for me at the kitchen table, like this, she’d even prepared tea --” To demonstrate Chrisjen sets the pot down beside Bobbie, folds her arms primly when she sits. Her voice goes even deeper, strangely juvenile in imitation: “' _Welcome home, Chrisjen. Am I to assume I am too late to advocate for the newest Avasarala?’_ Because -- you see -- she’d just happened to access the records a few days after my third pregnancy ended. The brat thought she should have been _consulted._ ”

Chrisjen snorts again, chuckling to herself, and even Bobbie breathes out a little surprised giggle. “Wait, what?”

“Apparently a better mother would have _explained_ herself, or whatever the fuck ‘empathetic parents’ are supposed to do these days. And after that, not one more ‘Maman.’” She scoffs. “Why she thought it was possible to convince a forty-six-year-old diplomat to complete a _pregnancy,_ I’ll never know. Or why she would even have wanted me to.” Then, again, a flicker of memory, and her expression falls into one of cutting calculation. “Although. Arjun and I were -- uneasy, in those days. Maybe she… huh.”

And, well. There really isn’t anything anyone can say to that.

Eventually Chrisjen shakes herself out of the deepening frown and smiles brightly, reaching for the teapot. “The little fixer. You really do remind me of her, you know, the way you map things out.”

Bobbie does not want to remind Chrisjen of her daughter, so she objects with the first thing that comes to mind -- “I’m not a fixer.” And when she gets an arched eyebrow she hurries to add, “Not like that.”

“Of course you aren’t _exactly_ like her. I’m just trying to make you laugh.” There’s a tinge of annoyance in her voice now. “Silly thing.”

Bobbie sticks out her tongue, which makes the old lady laugh, then wrinkles her nose when her stomach quivers. 

“You’re _my_ fixer,” Chrisjen says then, and all of a sudden her hand is on top of Bobbie’s on the table and it’s warmer than usual, softer, so very gentle as the thumb presses into her palm. “Hmm? That isn’t so bad a thing to be.”

And unfortunate as it is, this is true.

As Chrisjen begins to hum again, absent-mindedly, she reaches for the teapot and pours two cups of steaming red liquid. She does this one-handed, because she hasn’t let go of Bobbie with her left -- holding it so close Bobbie can feel the slight tremor of it, wants to pull it to her chest and squeeze tight until it steadies. 

“Is she still mad, then?” she asks without thinking. “If she still calls you Chrisjen.”

“Mmm. Not about that, I shouldn’t think. She has other things. Although you know -- oh --” In the middle of pushing one mug across the table Chrisjen looks up with sudden bright irony, eyes wide, half-smiling it what looks like amazement. “It’s that I killed both her siblings. Her only siblings.”

“Huh.” Bobbie blinks. “Wow.” Then: “Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“No, she -- she’s right. She’s alone now, in being my child. It isn’t a... _gentle_ thing to be.”

Bobbie can’t help but remember a dark morning, a hovering proximity. The feeling of smooth glossy hair between her fingers. _This is not a gift I’m giving you._

She surprises herself by feeling a sharp hot burst of -- oh. Of some warped and starving hatred.

Huh.

“You really don’t think you can get close to people without hurting them, do you?” she says out loud. Chrisjen actually leans back a little. “And you say _I’m_ childish.”

There’s a beat, and then Chrisjen shows her teeth. Not quite smiling anymore. “My Martian,” she almost purrs. “Yes. I’m very fond of you.”

Neither withdraws her hand. Neither wants to.

“Drink your tea,” Chrisjen says abruptly. “Please. You’ll like this one.”

Obediently, Bobbie brings the warm cup to her lips. It’s a sweet smell, almost creamy, and when it hits her tongue she’s overwhelmed with a heady richness of flavour. It tastes _red,_ deep and woody and blooming.

She loves it.

She _loves_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading! Nineteen chapters... look how far we've come. Take a seat, dear readers. Have some tea. I think you'll like this one.


End file.
